A/N: It has just come to my attention that none of my page breaks actually saved despite Doc Manager telling me it saved them, leaving you all with a fic that had no breaks at all. I'm so so sorry adhfdhfsdjht D: I've fixed it all up, and I sincerely hope it hasn't affected your reading experience too much! :c If you need to go back and re-read in case something was confusing, it should be better now! Again, I'm so sorry for that terrible blunder! /kicks

Also, this chapter had a lot of hilarity going on - I blame Annacat101 for the strangest PMSing in the world. She doesn't get snappy or angry. No, she just giggles at everything. Seriously. I don't even understand.

But hey, at least she didn't get mad at me and ignore me during this chapter? So thanks again to all of her contributions~

Enjoy~!

The mess hall was nearly empty, all except for Demoman, who nursed his bottle of Scrumpy at the center table. Everyone had left, retreating to their rooms or wherever else they went in their free time. He was content to stay near the fridge, a short walk away from another bottle whenever he should need one. Idly, he wondered if he would ever actually run out of the blessed drink, and then quickly decided that such a day would demand a lot of anger. He also doubted it would ever occur – he had seen their supply truck filled with Scrumpy once, though he had never once asked for more. Demo supposed it came with the job, or something.

After all, every teammate somehow found something of their favorite always in the fridge, or readily accessible. Just another quirk in an all-too-strange place. But at least it paid well. That was almost always enough to shut up any questions. Demo finished the bottle with a large swig, tossing it at the wall above the trash can. It shattered, most of the broken glass falling into the bin. He leaned back in the seat, looking up at the ceiling.

A right mess they were in, and he had to ask himself if it were another game set up by their company, or something else. Perhaps TF Industries had no more use for trained killers and decided that the easiest way to get rid of them was to let them kill each other? But then, they had always promised freedom after their constantly-renewing contracts ended, if they ever did. It was not as if the Scot was eager to leave, though – once it was over, he would doubtless be hard-pressed to find a job like it, or even one that let him blow up anything other than buildings. There could be no going back. So maybe it was better to just stay here, fight and kill other people that looked too much like his own teammates, and be killed quite a bit himself. That is, if they could fix the system. If it was even broken.

Demo decided to stop thinking about all that – it drove him in too many circles – and simply stared upward, looking at the minute cracks above him, creating designs from them. It was easier not to think, better not to ask questions, and healthier to stop worrying. So the Scot stood, grabbed another bottle, and sat back down.

After Medic returned to the hospital wing, Sniper had taken his leave and gone down to the shooting range they had underground. He needed to calm himself, and his fingers felt twitchy after multiple battles of not being allowed to blow everyone's brains out. He was surprised at how much he needed it, as if he had gotten addicted to killing. Regardless, perhaps a bit of target practice would soothe the itch. And then he would be able to relax with a cup of coffee.

The Australian entered the field of rooms, walking further to the area he had designed, all of the targets so far that one could not tell a bull's-eye from an entire target without a scope. It was just how he liked it, too. His rifle took a mere couple of seconds to assemble, the process having become second-nature years ago. Sniper settled down on one of the boxes, putting the rifle stand against the railing separating the target area from him. With a foot, he tapped the button that would set the targets moving, turning his microphone off as an afterthought.

Sniper exhaled, falling still, relaxing as he stared down the scope. He waited, calm, and followed one of the targets, awaiting the perfect instant and…BAM, straight through the center of the bull's-eye and into the target behind it. Where there was once paint were holes, now. Two birds, one stone, so to speak. The Australian reloaded quickly, snapping the old bullet shell out. Smirking, Sniper picked his next target. It was all too easy to settle into the rhythm of waiting, shooting, reloading, waiting.

Within minutes, he found himself calmer than he had been since Respawn first went down. Now if only he could go out and really kill, instead of simple paper targets that had been programmed to move around randomly. It was different – here there was a computerized pattern; out there was the human pattern, habits created and destroyed, ignorance and paranoia being lovely things to toy around with. He could not do any such thing with paper.

Respawn, he thought, firing another perfect shot, can't be fixed soon enough.

It was to a spiking headache and bright lights that Scout awoke, slamming his eyes shut as soon as he had opened them. Too much light! his brain shouted at him. He squinted, letting himself adjust to the room, taking stock of where he hurt and where he did not. Everything ached, sure, but it was mostly centered on a few areas. His chest, for one, and his head, for another. Surprisingly, his leg did not hurt so much, though he did not doubt that it would be quite a pain to even slightly bump it. Scout moved to prop himself up into a sitting position, managing to lock his elbows before the nauseating dizziness hit.

He took a few breaths, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, and then pushed into a fully seated position, twisting to dangle his legs over the side. First the uninjured, then the newly-healed. He was okay…for the most part. Except for that headache. It crawled up from the back of his neck, a pulsing pain that shot through the back of his skull in waves. He didn't remember being hit there, and he never got headaches before. It was not as if he was an unhealthy person – especially not with the job that he had – so why was this happening now?

Scout groaned, hanging his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his short hair. He hit the receding bump on his head with a slight wince, and then continued gingerly past it, resting his hands around his neck. The pressure there seemed to lessen the aching in his head, and he sighed softly.

As stupidly arrogant as he was known to be, he was not going to risk standing up just yet. The room seemed empty – though if Medic were hiding in his office, he wouldn't know it – and if he fell, help would probably be long in coming. Scout looked over at the side of the bed, spotting his hat on the nightstand. He reached over and picked it up by the bill, his hand sinking suddenly at the weight he had not known was within it.

Tugging it over, he looked into it, surprised to see his headset. Shocking him further, he saw his dogtags in there, on a new, unbroken chain. He pulled them out with a soft smile and slipped them on, glancing down. Then, he lifted his headset, setting the hat down. Inspecting it, he realized it was in perfect condition – it wasn't the one he had smashed. When had Engineer gotten the time to fix it? Or did they have spares in the Supply room? He put it on, flicking the mic on and adjusting the sound.

"Mornin'," he muttered, moving back to massaging the base of his neck.

"'ey, Laddie, yer' finally awake!" Demo greeted him with drunken excitement.

"Yep. How long's it been?" Scout asked, frowning.

"Coupla' nights, 'ah think. Er maybe just one. 'Ah dunno' anymore." The Scot laughed, finding his own statement particularly amusing.

"Lotta' help you are, ya' drunk," Scout answered, rolling his eyes.

"Ah, ze stupid little bird has finally avoken," Medic interrupted, and the runner saw him walking through the door in front of him a moment later. "How are you feeling?"

"Ache-y. Is yer gun broken 'er somethin'? S'not doin' as good a job as it used ta'," he griped, scowling.

"If you vould happen to remember, I could not recharge it, and you vasted most of it vith your numerous injuries. Vhy did you go and get yourself caught? Vanted to prove how smart you are?" The doctor was curt, irritated, as he had been before, though now it seemed almost worse. Scout had not thought that possible.

"Hey! I got shot down by their Sniper!" Scout complained, his hands tightening into fists.

"And zhen you let zheir Scout help you to vhat you assumed vas safety. Yes, yes, very smart." Medic tsked, walking forward to examine the runner. When the German saw Scout's hands curled tightly around his neck, he frowned, moving closer. "Is something bozhering you zhere?" he asked, moving to lift the younger's hands away.

Scout pushed harder against his neck, unwilling to relieve the pressure that seemed to be helping so much. "'s'fine. Just got a headache's all," he grumbled, glaring down and to the right, avoiding Medic's gaze.

"Let me see. I vill know if it 's'fine' or not." The German attempted again to move Scout's hands, and the latter struggled to keep them there. "If I do not look at it, you vill not know if it is serious. And if it is serious and ve do not know, if may kill you. Now let go." Scout's hands curled tighter, though he moved them when prompted to, flinching as the waves of pain resumed their pattern.

"Gnngh…Doc', hurry up, man," he complained, his hands fisting in the sheets instead, despite the pain it elicited from his cuts.

"Hmm…" Medic turned Scout's head gently, placing his hands on either side of the younger's neck, pushing down firmly. The runner sighed in relief, slouching suddenly. The German pushed in different places, listening to Scout's sounds in response to different pressures – some were relieved, others were more pained. He finally pushed gently on where Engineer had told him the chip was, and Scout let out a yell, flinching and struggling away, replacing his own hands.

"What the fuck, man! That hurt!" he exclaimed, glaring at Medic. The doctor stood there, thinking, without even making it appear as if he would respond to Scout. He turned on his heel a moment later, leaving the room. Scout frowned, rubbing at his neck, confused and angered.

"Herr Engineer!" Medic called, knocking once on the door to the Respawn room, stepping in a moment later. He walked briskly to the tangle of wires and machines in the back of the room, boots clicking on the tiled floor.

"Howdy. What's the matter?" Engineer asked, looking up at the German.

"Vill you pull up Herr Scout's log?" Medic knew he was answering a question with another question, and also that it wasn't fair to the Texan, but it was of urgent importance.

"Sure thing. Has somethin' happened to the kid?" Engineer frowned, pulling up the log and scanning it. At the top, with the most newly updated data, was a string of code that he did not quite understand. It certainly did not look like anything he had dealt with before. "What's this…" he stopped, then, pulled out a small gadget from his toolbox, and stuck it into the jumble of wires, connecting it to something.

"Vhat are you doing?" Again, he avoided the question, wanting to be sure before announcing anything.

"Savin' the logs. Just in case. I'll get 'em all in an unaltered state, save fer' Pyro's. Can't do anythin' for his. But once I've got 'em, it don't matter if the machine'll delete 'em, 'cause I'll still have a set." He said all of this as he worked, and Medic noticed that he saved two of Scout's files, one with a line of data from the top missing, the other remaining whole. The Texan then went through all of the other team members' logs, checking for the same sort of coding. "There. Got 'em." Engineer pulled out his little gizmo a moment later, slipping it back into his toolbox. "S'all safe now."

"Good. However, could you explain vhat that strange line of data is?" Medic asked, pointing to it on Scout's file.

"Yer guess is as good as mine, fer now. I've got no idea. It wasn't there a coupla' hours ago though, that's fer sure." The Texan frowned. "What did ya' say happened to the kid?" Medic knew that it was Engineer's subtle way of saying that he did not enjoy having things hidden from him.

"He complained of a severe headache, and it seemed to be originating from the back of his skull. I examined it, and vhen I pressed on his neck, vhere his chip is, he cried out. It is almost as if zhe chip has turned on him. I am vorried zhis vill happen to zhe rest of us as vell." Medic glanced down at the healing gun on the ground, and though it looked fixed, he doubted it would be of much use in such a situation. After all, it restored one to their previous condition – he doubted that such an effect would be erased by the gun.

"So it ain't just me," Engineer murmured, almost inaudibly. "That…don't sound too good. If it is as you say, and the chip itself is hurtin' 'im, then maybe it needs ta' be taken out. Could ya' do that?" the Texan questioned, looking up at Medic.

"Perhaps…but I do not know if it will make it better, or vorse. For all I know, it may kill him to have it removed."

"And it may kill 'im to keep it in," Engineer replied. "Question is, which one d'ya wanna' risk?" He sat for a while, thinking, his hands not even fidgeting. "If ya' pull it out, maybe I can fix it, if there's anythin' wrong with it. I'd be able to find out a lot more if I had one of 'em." It was risky either way – if they waited too long, who knew if the entire team would succumb to these headaches? Or would they be alright? There was no way to know. "I'd ask for Pyro's chip, but 'e was deleted off the system, so I don't think it'd do any good."

"If it vill help, zhen I vill see vhat I can do. It seems like zhis pain came at a delay from zhe system going down, and only Scout has felt its effect so far." Medic stopped, looking over Engineer carefully, almost suspiciously. "That I have been told of, anyhow." He frowned, continuing, "If I pull it out, he should be okay for a little while at least, if it would even kill him to pull it out. I do not doubt I can extract it – the process should be simple enough. After all, I have replaced hearts before!" he laughed for a moment, amused at the memory.

Engineer scratched at the back of his head, as if relieving an itch – or perhaps pain. "I'd say go ahead. Maybe it'll help. And if it doesn't, at least we can get a little more info before ya' put it back. D'ya think ya' can reinsert it too?" the Texan asked, frowning.

"I do not see vhy not. It should not be too much of a problem."

"Jest make sure ya' see what all it's connected to an' such before ya' pull it out. It wouldn't do ta' put it in wrong. If ya' call me over before ya' do it, I can draw up a schematic lickety-split and then ya' won't have to worry at all."

"Zhat vould be appreciated, Herr Engineer," Medic replied, nodding.

"Great. Just call me over before ya' start. Oh, and yer gun's all fixed, s'much as I could charge it up. Should be that ya' can heal a few more like that. If'n Scout doesn't get hurt all over again." Engineer chuckled, shaking his head.

"I swear, the dummkopf has only zhe mind to get himself killed. I doubt he even knows the difference between courage and stupidity." Medic bent down to pick up his gun, standing straight a moment later, swinging the pack over his shoulder. "Anyvay, I must go prepare. I vill call for you vhen I am ready. It vill be after dinner. Danke for your help," he called, opening the door.

"No problem, pardner," Engineer called over his shoulder, already focused on his work again.

Scout groaned, sitting in the same position he had been in when Medic left him. By now, he had figured out all of the places that he could press that would make his headache lessen slightly – and by slightly, he meant barely at all. It still hurt, it still made the world swim around him, and it still pounded through his skull, reverberating and echoing until it grew deafening. He tried to move, to stand, and couldn't for a while. It was only when the doors banged open –they simply opened with a loud noise, as Scout had been loathe to realize – that he managed to move a little, looking up.

The runner attempted standing, driving himself to his feet, the wave of nausea washing over him – when had he decided this was a good idea? – pushing him toward the ground at an alarming rate. He shoved his legs out, as if he could catch himself by running forward, and it doubtless only made his fall more spectacular. Never once did he think to remove his hands from his neck and catch himself, and only as he stared at the ground did he regret that instinct. He shut his eyes after the last pathetic attempt to catch himself and attempted to curl up and lessen the pain he knew he would be feeling in a moment.

That moment never came. Or at least, the pain didn't. Scout belatedly realized that something had caught him. He opened his eyes slowly – aware that the bright light would stab into his brain if he wasn't careful – and glanced down. A large arm encircled his chest, another over his shoulders, keeping him from falling any further, though his toes had begun to skid on the tile. The arms lifted him up, setting him back down on his cot.

Scout dragged his head upward, his arms still wrapped around his neck. He blinked in surprise even as his head pounded mercilessly.

"Does leetle Scout vant more injury?" Heavy asked, a bewildered frown on his face. "Is not smart for walking when leetle man cannot see straight."

"Oh…hey, man," Scout grumbled, looking up at him for another moment before looking down, hoping that staying with his head down would keep the pain at bay.

"What is matter?" the Russian boomed, and Scout flinched. He didn't blame the man – he doubted Heavy's voice could actually go much quieter – but it hurt nonetheless.

"'m alright, fatty," he muttered, though there was no venom in the insult – as much of the team had quickly learned. They were pet names when used on his team members, vicious insults when used on the enemy. The BLU Team had gotten used to it.

"Leetle Scout not looking alright," Heavy replied, appearing nonplussed, when the doors opened again, the sound amplified in Scout's pained ears. Were the doors really that loud all the time, or was it just this stupid headache?

"Ah, zere you are, Heavy," Medic said, walking in briskly, going straight to his tools in the back. "Come over here, please. I must speak vith you." The large Russian complied, walking over to him. The German muttered quietly as he shuffled around, his tools clanking about, obscuring any words Scout could have heard.

Of course, maybe the tools were actually really quiet and his brain was just disintegrating or something stupid like that. Not knowing what was going on only made Scout more frustrated, which spiked the pain in his head, which made him more upset. It was a vicious cycle.

Heavy finally walked back over and stood in front of Scout's cot, as if he wanted to say something but not knowing how to say it. The Russian did not move for quite some time.

"Whaddya want…fatty?" the runner managed, looking over at him.

"Just…saying goodnight! Yes, goodnight." Scout frowned at Heavy's words, confused. He would have been suspicious too, if he were in any right state of mind. "Leetle Scout is tired yes? Maybe sleep help. Sleep good for head pains." Something clicked, then. Scout had never told the Russian that he had a headache.

He turned, dragging his gaze over his shoulder, and spotted Medic just a foot behind him.

"Ach, look at vhat you have done, Heavy," the German grumbled, raising the syringe in his hand and bringing it down, quick as a snake. Scout barely managed to throw himself out of the way, despite the sudden lance of agony, and found himself flying…straight into Heavy. The Russian caught him easily and held him, restricting his movement.

"What the hell are you tryin' to do ta' me!" he shouted, fighting to break free. Medic sighed, waving for Heavy to turn the runner around and hold him firmly on the bed.

"If you vould rather I do zhis without zhe morphine, zhat is perfectly fine," the German retorted, holding Scout's leg straight out and plunging the syringe into his thigh. The runner kicked viciously, swinging his free leg at Medic's face. The doctor depressed the plunger, taking the kick without moving. It would not do well to miss the artery, and a bruise was nothing.

Heavy let out a sound of displeasure when Medic did not dodge, but made no move to change his grip on Scout, simply tightening the hold he had on his arms. The runner struggled, though each movement grew more sluggish than the last, and he finally stopped trying to break free, slouching against the Russian.