Chapter 3: Anxieties

The strident whine of a siren was what pulled Demoman from the comforts of warm, unbroken slumber and into the agonizing depths of Hell. He awoke to a searing heat spread across his entire body, causing his limbs feel as if they were on fire. His head pounded mercilessly with each piercing screech of the bloody alarm, his mind swimming and spinning ceaselessly. The Scottish cyclops moaned miserably as the racket continued, shoving his head into his pillow in hopes to block out the horrid noise. The blare seemed louder than usual, sounding more like a jet engine shrieking into the ears of a mouse. The sheer volume sent Demoman's head reeling as he struggled out of the fishnet of his sheets and tumbled with the grace of an elephant onto the wooden floor. He laid there for a second longer as he tried to decipher between the ceiling and the floor.

Perhaps he had one bottle of scrumpy too much. Demoman was a heavy drinker, with the resilience of a bull when it came to any drinking challenge. He could out-drink the burly Russian Heavy, who had a belly twice the Scot's size, and continue winning against Soldier and Engineer. However, after the black cyclops had set eyes on the tiny lass that was to be Engineer's replacement, he rushed to drink away his anxieties and rising panic with a crate-full of his homemade 'scrumpy'. It comforted him no further to learn that the girl had never attended their daily strategy meeting, much to the Soldier's rage. Demoman blinked as he struggled to recall what transpired after, but his memory was so foggy he might as well assumed Pyro stripped him down and shaved off his chest hair (A quick glance into his shirt obliterated that worrisome—and somewhat disturbing—notion).

Babbling out slurred obscenities over the roar of the siren, Demoman pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out of his room, toward the supply room where his uniform and weapons awaited him. Due to the hindrance of being unable to see straight, the Scotsman slammed into the hallway walls countless times as he adjusted his eye patch, his fellow teammates eyeing him with either annoyance or mild concern as they sped past him. He grumbled unhappily as each passing footstep pounded at his skull. He hoped the Medic would be there already once he arrived; he couldn't possibly continue in combat with such a painful hangover.

"Whoa, man! What happened ta ya? Ya look more hammered den usual!"

Demoman winced at Scout's characteristically—and unnecessary—loud voice, blinking blearily at the shorter man who seated himself onto one of the wooden benches in the middle of the supply room. The others in the room—Spy, Sniper, Heavy, and Pyro—all glanced curiously at the Scottish demolitions man, who ignored their stares as he mumbled incoherently under his breath. Unfortunately, the Medic was not there yet, and so Demoman was forced to attempt to load his grenade launcher with one excruciating headache and unsteady vision, which was already compromised due to having only one eye.

Preoccupied with muttering oaths under his breath as he fumbled with his bright red grenades, Demoman did not notice a furious Soldier tramp into the room, face crimson under his oversized helmet. He swung his head around, glaring at the mercenaries' faces as his helmet straps slapped his face, before halting onto the Scout's. In one swift motion, he loomed over the Bostonian and boomed, "You!" Both Scout and Demoman yelped in surprise, each dropping their weapons onto the floor. Demoman glanced at the Soldier in stun, cringing at the American's roar.

"Weren't you supposed to keep an eye on that weakling of an American? Where is she? The blood battle begins at o' six hundred!"

"Heck if I know!" Scout shouted back. Demoman recoiled at the volume and shoved his head into his awaiting palms. Oh no. Not an argument now.

"That coward is hiding beneath all her drapes while her teammates are awaiting certain death! She might as well be a traitor!"

There was a shift of clothing when Scout abruptly stood, shoving his nose against Soldier's. "Hey, cut her some slack! It's her first day!"

Soldier growled, the noise vibrating deeply in his throat. "She didn't even attend the meeting! Where was she?"

"Like I know! I was in da meetin' with you people! I couldn't find her before dat!"

"Making excuses for a traitor, boy?"

"Heck no, old man! Why don't you just take your little trumpet and shove it up your—"

"Ah, vy are you two dummkopfs arguing at such an early hour? Ehrlich, I am vorking vith babies now."

Oh bless that bloody giant of a German doctor!

Despair immediately transforming into relief, Demoman turned to the doorway and peered through his blurry vision to find the Medic sauntering in, adjusting his round glasses up the bridge of his nose as he blankly stared at Soldier and Scout with his dark grey eyes. Usually, most people would be imitated by the German's bulk, with only several inches shorter than the Heavy and beholding massive hands that could very well strangle a full-muscled wrestler in mere seconds. However, Soldier and Scout weren't considered 'ordinary folk'. Scout, according to his own proclaimed tradition, stepped forward and complained first.

"Flag Boy over here is sayin' dat it's my fault Operator ain't here yet! I don't even know where the freak she is! She disappeared before da meetin'!"

Soldier released a harsh bark of mocking laughter before shoving a meaty finger into Scout's chest. "And it was your duty to look after that hippie! Now she is missing! She ran off like the true coward she is!"

Scout's face turned more crimson than his shirt as he stood closer to Soldier (Great Scot, how can that even be possible?) and curled his fist into a tight ball. The mercenaries around them tensed and shuffled forward, prepared to pull the two back with force if a fistfight began. Medic's eyebrows lowered and wrinkled into a frown, his patience obviously wearing thin. Just as his lips parted to say something, the Administrator's crisp voice rang from the speakers hanging overhead.

"Mission begins in sixty seconds!"

Almost immediately, the vibrant color on both Scout's and Soldier's faces diminished as they hastily snatched their weapons and yanked on the rest of their clothing. The remaining mercenaries followed suit, not casting the two another glance as they pocketed extra knives, sandviches, and arrows. Even after they were suited up, they stood patiently and silently at the doorway, nodding slightly at each other as they gripped their weapons.

Many would be incredibly bemused at the sudden lack of fury of the two most reckless REDs after such a heated discussion, but that was how things went in Teufort. At one moment, the humid air was filled with furious roars and bellows, and then the next it was booming with laughter and glee. Scout and Soldier were certainly known for their thick skulls and simple ways, but they weren't foolish. They knew when it was time for an argument to cease and shake hands. Perhaps that was why the RED team tolerated their bickering.

"Mission begins in thirty seconds!"

Demoman frowned as he stood on his wobbly legs, momentarily forgetting his hangover as he scanned over the room. He scowled when he found no head of crimson hair waiting along with the team. It seemed their 'Operator' had truly abandoned them. He shook his head as his hand began to twitch, aching for his missing bottle of scrumpy. His stomach curled into a tight knot, bringing a pang of nausea to his form. He wasn't quite sure if it was due to the alcohol or the chilling anxiety spreading across his limbs.

Bloody hell, they were doomed.

Medic was not impressed. His gloved fingers curled around his medigun as he hoisted it up to his hips, pumping out the crimson cloud of additional health onto his teammates. He received grunts of gratitude in return, but he ignored them completely as he focused on the storm brewing inside his head.

Missing a meeting on the first day of the job he could dismiss. Even the Operator's absence during dinner was something one could easily overlook. But missing during mere seconds before the true turmoil began? And even then she still might not come? Medic clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around the handle of his precious weapon. Oh no, he was certainly not impressed.

But perhaps he was exaggerating. After all, Medic was not impressed by a lot of things. Like when Scout jammed a massive chunk of peanut butter inside his toothpaste (how he possibly managed that will always remain a mystery), writing it off as a 'joke'. Little did the Scout know that the German was incredibly allergic to peanuts, making both of their days extremely unpleasant. Neither was Medic amused when Heavy accidentally stepped on Archimedes, the German's most treasured dove. He had to beg the Administrator to allow Respawn for the poor bird, who couldn't possibly survive Heavy's weight.

And so, yes, he was exaggerating—under-exaggerating. Medic was not 'unimpressed'. He was livid.

Before his mind could fantasize on how slowly he would strangle Operator after they were utterly slaughtered, a short cough caught his attention. He turned to find Demoman, whose eye seemed more red-rimmed and unfocused than usual, glancing at him in embarrassment. Medic's eyebrows quirked up when he noticed the beads of sweat dripping down his wrinkled brow and he wrinkled his nose once the intense wave of scrumpy hit him.

Demoman made a vague gesture bordering between apology and humiliation. "I daon' mean ta ask ya of this lightly, Doc, but…" He eyed the medigun in desperation, his lips twitching as a result of the obvious pain pulsing through his head. "Ya see, I drank a wee bit more than I should 'ave, and…well…" He trailed off, throwing his hands out in a way of finishing his sentence. He stared at Medic with misery, and the German could hear the unspoken plea in the Scotsman's awkward silence: 'Please don't make me say it aloud, Doc. I got a hangover and I'm not proud of it. Don't make me say it.'

Medic sighed in understanding before muttering about the foolishness of drinkers and pointing his medigun at the black cyclops. Once the scarlet mist swathed over him, Demoman sighed in relief, relishing the absence of his pain. His shoulders lifted as a spark of energy erupted into the demolition expert's chest and he flashed the Medic a grateful grin. "Thanks, Doc." Medic grunted in acknowledgement before turning back to Heavy and pumping more health into the giant of a man.

"Mission begins in ten seconds!"

Ah, there was no point in angering himself over the absence of the Operator. He needed to remain focused on the task at hand, which was making certain his teammates were breathing and combatable. Beyond that, the matters were left for his team to work out.

"Five."

He just hoped-

"Four."

-that their defeat-

"Three."

-wouldn't be—

"Two…"

-entirely humiliating.

"One!"