The Cook, long before she was done with dinner, decided to leave them to feed themselves. There was no way she was going to volunteer to sit there while the Sniper or the Spy dropped little details about the previous night, let alone to have to try to eat while the rest of the mercenaries leered at her. As far as she was concerned, that would be the pattern for the rest of her contract. It had to be safer than trying to be around them all. She would just get up long before they rose, make dinner before they came back in, and retreat to her room, locking the door.
Right, she thought, as if a locked door would stop any of them. She had to do something, even if the gesture was pointless and maybe, if she wasn't around, maybe they'd just leave her alone. And maybe, she thought, there are unicorns in the closet. She put the desk chair under the door knob and lay down on the still-dirty bed, staring at the ceiling. She had no idea where the washing machines might be, or even where to find detergent to clean her sheets.
The mercenaries, filing into the dining room, found a table that had been set for them and several covered dishes. The Cook never appeared to fill the empty seat between the Medic and Heavy. By the end of the meal, they knew she wouldn't. The Medic sighed—the Sniper and Spy had, once again, created problems he had to clean up. The men seemed to delight in making a mess that he would feel obliged to deal with, almost as if punishing him for having to report on them to RED.
"Looks like you'll have to go get the little Birdie out of her room," the Sniper said, staring at the Medic. "Good thing you have a soft touch… Nursie." The Medic, useful as he was, irritated the Sniper—the man seemed to think of himself as the unofficial base administrator, ordering them all about and scolding them like an old woman whenever they did anything he disliked. He hated the man's fussiness, his seeming need to behave like their father, the way he hated to be dirty and insisted on such an incredibly impractical coat on the field. The white made him stand out like a flag in anything but the snow, and the Sniper found it incredibly annoying that the Medic never tried to blend in, forcing his teammates to guard him.
"I hope you get syphilis the next time you go to town, Sniper, so I can refuse to treat it."
The Sniper smirked in disbelief. If he got syphilis, a bullet would fix it, as it did any injury or illness. Sometimes, he wondered if the Medic remembered where he was.
The Medic, looking at the smirk, decided against a small alteration of the system to add something itchy to the Sniper's respawn. He'd just give it to the poor girl. But sometimes, the Medic thought, it'd be satisfying to remind the Bushman that his life depends on the respawn and my choice to heal him. He stood, loading an empty plate. "Heavy, would you fetch a teapot and four cups?"
The Heavy lumbered into the kitchen, taking his plate and the Medic's. The Pyro followed, putting down his plate in the sink and coming back to the table to snag a handful of cookies. The three made their way to the Cook's room and found the door locked. After a moment, the Medic rapped his knuckles on the door.
"I don't care who it is," she said, dully. "You're not getting in."
"I am merely checking on you, Fräu." The Medic rapped the door again, annoyance starting to bleed into his voice. Every time. Every single time, he thought, I am stuck with their messes.
"Go away." The words were ragged, the tone thick.
Vunderbar, the Medic thought. And she's been crying. "Fräu, it is my job to check on others. You were not at dinner, and I need to be sure you are not wounded or seriously ill." He shifted the plate in his hands, letting his fingers cool.
After a moment, he heard the squeal of a chair against the concrete floor and the small click of the lock. She opened the door and peered around it, hunched as if hiding behind the door. The Cook eyed the three of them, the food in their hands.
The Medic gestured with the plate. "Nothing ill is intended. We are merely insuring that you are well. May we come in?"
She stared at him for a moment. He couldn't quite identify the emotion on her face—shame, perhaps. Anger, definitely. And something else. Fear? He closed his eyes. Vunderbar. The room still smelled like sex, and with a disgusted twist of his lips, he felt sure his team members had employed much more force than kindness. The girl seemed more fragile by the second, shock no doubt setting in once she'd had time to think about what had been done to her.
The Cook, watching the disgust pass across his face, could only interpret it one way. He was disgusted with her. She walked away from the door and went back to the bed, laying down and staring blankly at the ceiling. Her voice was quiet. "I'm not hungry."
The Heavy rumbled, relieved. "Is okay. We do not have to be here. Will leave food and tea by door for when you are hungry again."
She turned toward them, staring. She'd expected another display of force, another overwhelming combination of manipulation and skill that would leave her confused, hungry, and shamed. Instead, the men stood just inside the doorway, taking care not to invade the room, and waiting for her to state a preference one way or the other. The Medic's disgusted expression had softened into worry. The Heavy seemed resigned, and the Pyro's baleful gaze was shy, even somewhat tentative. He held out a handful of the cookies she'd absentmindedly made for dessert. "They're good."
The Cook blinked—the tense violence she had seen in his expression when they'd met seemed to have evaporated. The cookies were held out in front of him like a shield, or perhaps like a little boy sharing with a sweetheart. "I know."
The Pyro brought the cookies back to his nose and sniffed once, with clear pleasure, then offered them to her again. "Better than store cookies."
The Cook slowly sat up, responding as much to the pleading look on his face as to the gentle behavior of the men in her room. "I hope so. Those damn things at the store are always a bit stale."
The poor girl was all but trying to hide under the bed, and he felt sorry for her. The Heavy held up a flowered teapot. "Is good tea for cookies. Spicy."
She could smell it—bergamot and something floral to balance the bergamot's spiciness. Her stomach gurgled, and she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed. She had cooked and cleaned all day in a haze, working through the events of the previous night. Their attention and the warm, greasy smell reminded her that she was lightheaded with hunger.
The Medic put the plate slowly on her desk. "We do not have to be here, Fräu. We merely wanted to see you were well." He made a flipping gesture with his hand, and the men turned to go.
The Cook realized that, along with being hungry, she wanted someone to talk to—someone to simply listen. The willingness of the Medic to leave, the Pyro's simple, tentative desire to share, the Heavy's seeming disinterest: she realized she wanted friends. She reached out, fingers curling in the empty air between them, pleading for company before she had the courage to speak. "No, it's kind of you. I'll eat. You don't have to go."
The Medic turned, his sweat-stained lab coat swirling over his tan slacks. "Where would you like us to sit?"
Her hand, hanging in the air between them, opened. The Medic found himself watching it, the fingers flexing. Well, he thought, not defeated, but certainly lonely. His eyes closed for a moment, imagining her hand pulling him close. When he opened his eyes, she was watching him, wary and hopeful. Patience, he thought, no trust without patience.
"Just not on the bed, please." She wasn't sure she would be able to submit to another night of vicious gymnastics, nor to chance one of them trying to cross the space between them, to touch her. She realized that she wanted someone to touch her and shuddered—her own desire terrified her, the fact that she could be full to the brim of loathing, even rage, and still hungry to be touched. The trio in front of her was not menacing, but she could still feel the potential for it hanging in the air like a promise. And was it not right for the Medic to be disgusted, she thought, that someone could have done to them what the Spy and Sniper had done to me, and still want something more. Was it not right for the Medic to be disgusted that the violence itself was part of what attracted me to them?
The Medic put the plate on the desk with a faint clink, then pulled the desk chair out and sat on it, leaving the Heavy leaning against the wall beside him, cradling the teapot and several mugs. The Pyro sat on the floor near them and handed her a cookie, his hand avoiding hers with obvious care.
She took the cookie and sighed, looking up at the Medic. "I was expecting something a little more forceful." Her eyes skipped down him, lingering at neck, pants and boots.
The words and her faintly disappointed expression hit him like a blow and he flinched—the vulnerability and telltale mix of desire and shame was practically edible. Helen, he thought, shocked, you sent us something more than a masochist. This one is… He was forced to remind himself what the woman had endured. She can't take any more right now. Don't push her. "If you wish, Fräu, but for you it would be too much, ja?" The Medic hooked a booted ankle over his knee, smearing mud across his slacks, and leaned back in the chair. "We are not animals." Do not, he added silently, compare me to those animals.
His glasses glittered under the lights, moving as he breathed. The Cook found herself watching them, watching the light scatter and hide, then expose the pale blue eyes behind the lenses. The Medic was sweaty and speckled with blood, his red tie hanging loosely from the collar of his shirt. He needed a shower, and the triangle of his chest in the open vee of his shirt made her wonder what that would look like, whether age had left a sparse padding over the visible muscle. She wondered if she was gawking, if that same, damned urge to touch someone and be touched was obvious. The man seemed so distant, disapproving and remote, and she wanted to make him respond to her, to see what his disgust meant. Why, she thought, would I want to bother a man who so obviously doesn't want me that way, who looks at me like I'm a wayward child?
"How," she started, then took a breath. "How is this all going to work? Do you decide or do I?"
The Medic clicked his tongue and shifted, the chair creaking under him. "We will ask, but we decide who asks, to prevent the fighting."
Her eyebrows met over her eyes. "And if I say no?"
The Medic looked down and away before responding. "Some of us will take the no. Some of us," he made a complex movement, somewhere between a shrug and a shudder, "are not so good."
The Cook briefly and badly wanted her knives from the kitchen, castigating herself for not thinking of taking them with her. The Medic looked back and watched the emotions roll across her face. Ignorant, Helen? How could you send her ignorant of the situation?
Her file suggested quite explicitly that she had a background with violence, but her responses—the blushing, the hiding, the lack of sophistication with which she greeted the situation—made him wonder if there had been a mistake. The girl was practically wet behind the ears, as far as he could tell. A virtual child, and certainly no one he'd send to this base. I have to be missing something, he thought. There has to be something more to her.
He laced his fingers over his knee and continued, watching her face. "I received your records this morning. The company was most thorough in their search for you. There are even interviews with a previous lover in the file, along with your vitals and a minor police record."
The Cook's mouth hung open, then shut with a click as her teeth met. She felt invaded, and wondered which lover they had interviewed. How much could they know? How much was in that file?
The Medic watched her settle on defensive anger. The girl was, no doubt, wondering what crimes and what lover he'd seen testimony from, and didn't like the idea, nor the stigma of being a criminal. He suppressed his mild amusement—the crimes they'd in her file barely merited mention. Petty theft. Some vagrancy and trespassing. Practically nothing on the scale of the men around her. Even the least criminal of them all, Scout, had more on his file. "Oh, don't worry, Fräu," he said, amusement making his voice lilt. "We all have our little troubles. I can never go back to Germany. Mischa cannot go back to the Ukraine."
The Heavy hunched in on himself, a reaction that made her think of a flinch, but seemed more the winding of a spring than a guilty hunch. The Cook wondered if he would attack or retreat, if provoked. She knew, from working with ex-cons, that the men with the least serious crimes tended to brag the loudest. The Heavy's reaction read murder to her, and she found herself grateful that the man had never shown any interest in her. She could see the blood on his coat, but the Medic's breezy dismissal made her wonder how serious his crimes could be. Her eyes turned to the Pyro, and she had to know—the candy-coated sweetness of the last few minutes and the flat violence in his face at their first dinner made her worry about his ability to be predicted. She had no idea what to do with him other than to simply ask and hope she didn't offend him. "And what did you do?"
The Pyro smiled sweetly at her. "It was this or a padded cell. I get to play with fire and no one takes away my toys or arrests me for it."
Somewhere, beneath that smile, the Cook saw leaping flames and felt the little hairs on the back of her neck rise, prickling. The disjointed behavior, that little response—the man was, without a doubt, insane. The Medic watched her shrink away from them all on the bed. She didn't appear to be aware of it, but he knew they'd all noticed, and that she would offend the Pyro rather quickly if she didn't stop.
The Pyro, watching her, responded before he could speak. "You make very good sweets," he chirped. "I love sweets. And you made me a whole cake the other day, just for myself. No one makes me nice things just for me."
The woman stopped shrinking back, her body language reading pity, or perhaps simply empathy. The boy was beaming at her, practically radiating wholesomeness, his hands tucked in his lap. The Medic sighed with relief. Managing the sometimes volatile Pyro and this poor woman was turning out to be a delicate balancing act. It couldn't hurt, he thought, to encourage some pity. "The Pyro did not have the happiest of childhoods, Fräu. There were some institutions and a most unfortunate caretaker who died rather suddenly."
"Yes," said the Pyro, his face becoming solemn. "He burned."
If he had been alone, the Medic would have sworn extensively. The woman had backed up enough to flatten herself against the wall, bunching that unappealing brown shirt around her waist. Her eyes were rimmed in white, the skin beneath them shivering. "Fräu," he said, gently. "Please at least try to eat. It is not good for you to go so long without food. Please."
Her head swiveled, eyes focusing on him, and he made his expression as neutral and kind as he could—her vulnerability was, as vulnerability always did, mildly arousing him. But he could, at least, keep it off his face. "Please."
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she slowly peeled herself away from the wall. It could not hurt, she thought, to eat something. The Medic leaned forward to hand her the plate and fork. She took her first awkward bites hunched over it, teetering on the edge of retreat. They let her eat without comment, and she slowly relaxed down into the bed. When she had cleaned the plate, she looked up, clear-eyed and serious, clutching her fork like a weapon. "I don't want to die here."
The Medic recoiled in his chair, offended. "I would not allow it. Not permanently." Had they not explained respawn to the poor girl?
From his post by the door, the Heavy made a gesture with his hand, still weighed down with the teacups and teapot no one had told him to place. The girl's responses had been more or less exactly what he'd expected—she was completely unprepared for the situation, and he knew his lover enough to know the man was alternating between arousal and shock at how poorly she'd been prepared for the base. He felt sorry for the girl himself. "The boy is not dangerous to you, девочка. Only if you hurt him."
The Pyro spoke around the cookies in his mouth. "You make me sweets. I'd never hurt you."
The tightness around her eyes didn't loosen, but she did appear to understand the subtext, nodding very slightly at the Heavy before watching the Pyro try to smile encouragingly at her. The Heavy had never seen the boy try so hard to be liked, and with a flash of insight, realized that the Pyro wanted, in his stunted way, to be her friend. He shifted, nudging the Medic's shoulder with his elbow, which the Medic reached up to squeeze, then froze.
"Ah, Mischa! I'm sorry. Please put the teapot down on the desk."
The Heavy thought about rolling his eyes at the Medic—over fifty years, and the man still forgot, sometimes, about the most basic details. With an affectionate, wry smile, he put his burden down, flexing his tired fingers. The Medic watched, a faint blush on his cheeks that the Heavy found too adorable to remain annoyed at him.
The Medic turned after a moment to the woman sitting on the bed. "I should warn you, Fräu, that minor theft would be met here with rather swift punishment." It is, he thought, only fair to warn her. The Demolitionist's room, in particular, has inventive and rather nasty traps on the door.
The Cook hunched her shoulders, huddling over the plate, and snapped defensively at him. "I was starving. I'm not usually a thief." The incident had been especially embarrassing—she had shoplifted a handful of packets of nuts, which turned out to be more complicated than she thought it would be. The clerk at the gas station had not been amused.
"Then it is good you are not hungry." The Medic tapped his fingers against the toe of his boot, a dry rattling sound that felt to her like a drum roll. The man appeared to be drawing a variety of conclusions, all of which seemed bad. The file, that entire stupid incident, was apparently never going to stop coming up—it was embarrassing to have any conviction, and embarrassing to have such petty convictions among men who, no doubt, had files that dwarfed hers.
The Heavy poured tea, setting the teapot down with a click against her desk next to the four, mismatched mugs. The Cook waited for everyone else to get their tea before leaning forward to claim the last mug, watching them each return to their places.
"What," she said into the waiting silence, "do you want from me?"
The Medic sighed. He wasn't sure how she'd take it, but he had never liked to lie. The interview with the lover in the file, along with some of the comments, made it clear that she enjoyed pain, but the devil was always in the details. There was no way to predict whether or not she'd like the same kind of pain he did, whether or not she'd even be interested. He looked at the hunch of her shoulders, the faint tremor of skin under her eyes, her breath shallow and faint spots of red high in her cheeks. High emotion. Pleased? Angry? Terrified? "Well, Fräu," he said, slowly. "I have read your file. For me, it is the slow pain. I am not frenzied, like our Sniper."
There was no change in her face, nothing to tell him whether she was about to run—and where would she go, he thought. The bathroom? The desert?—or whether she felt anything new at all on hearing him. The Medic continued, watching closely. "The Heavy is not a lover of women, but will watch. The Pyro loves his flame, but will behave well enough when told."
Well, she thought, that explains why the Heavy has been so neutral. After a moment, she spoke. "What do you mean by slow pain?"
"It is complicated, Fräu, but let us say that I like the pointed things and the mind. Unlike your companions of the previous night, I will give you a signal to stop me and I will stop." The Medic sipped his tea, watching her over the thin white rim of his cup. Her face still hadn't changed. "Your file was not terribly clear with this. Have you used a signal?"
The Medic watched confusion, surprise, and nervousness flash across her face. She hadn't said no and didn't appear offended, but she hadn't said yes, either.
"I…." She looked down at her plate, fingers whitening as she squeezed it. "I haven't really done much of anything that formal. Just what comes to mind." Her shoulders hunched again. "It's not like it's all that easy to find anyone who knows what they're doing."
"I will take that as a no." The Medic placed the empty mug back on the desk. "It is simple. You pick a word. Something strange, something you would not say. When you say it, everything stops and we will be most gentle with you."
She looked up at that. Confusion and offense? The Medic searched his memory for some parallel, the decades ago when he'd started to have this sort of sex, and with a shock, realized that she had never really had a relationship like his, with all its complications and comforts. He looked at her over the small circles of his lenses. "Our friends, they did not help you afterward? They did not—" The Medic turned to the Heavy. "What is the word?"
The Heavy spoke. "Aftercare. Comfort."
Her eyes skipped toward the plug visible on the bathroom counter, through the open door, and she blushed heavily, squirming.
"I see," the Medic said. My god, he thought, those two jackals simply could not help themselves, could they? They just had to break the poor girl in roughly. "Did you sleep with it?"
She hated the blush that heated her face and resisted the urge to hide in her blankets. The entire conversation made her feel exposed. The Medic's quiet, patient probing the details of the night before, and the knowledge that the company had her police record and interviews with a lover—I'd rather be naked, she thought, than have this discussion.
And that, the small rational voice in her head whispered, is also a bit masochistic. What are you looking for?—the voice was sly—for more? She could hear the voice of lovers. Is there any end to it for you? Are you ever fulfilled? Jesus, are you ever finished?
The Medic watched her eyes unfocus, the thoughts spilling through her head making her face pinch in worry and guilt. That flush, one of her hands unconsciously flew to her chest, where it curled against the edge of her shirt, plucking her shirt away from her skin as if she were trying to pull it off: guilt and desire. Not disgust nor refusal. Desire.
He laughed, delighted, but had to ask. "Well, Fräu, do you wish company this evening?"
The look she aimed at him smoldered, her whole face transforming, and she licked her lips. He wondered, with mild amusement, if she knew the signal which she was sending, and decided she likely didn't. She was too open in her reactions, as if she had not yet had her heart broken and learned to hide them. When she finally spoke, it was with the slight breathiness of arousal. "Will you be gentle?"
The Medic's dark eyebrows rose with amused surprise. That distance was back, the sense that he was watching and taking notes. She wanted to dirty him further, to pull the sweat-stained coat from his shoulders and run her hands underneath the cotton of his shirt to explore him. She wondered if she could elicit noise from him: a grunt, a moan, anything that suggested there were emotions under that composure.
"Oh Kätzchen," he said, his voice tinged with laughter. "This I cannot promise. But I can promise I will stop when I hear the word 'orange.' Repeat this word to me."
The Cook shivered on her bed, staring into the blue eyes under his lenses. The amusement on his face did not reach the strange chill in his eyes. Cruelty, she thought. Barely leashed cruelty. "Orange."
The Medic smiled, a tight, toothy expression. "Heavy, will you get the kit?"
As the Heavy left the room, the Pyro stood up, brushing cookie crumbs from his sweater. "Well, Doctor, what shall I do?"
From his chair, the Medic released a deep, slow breath. Patience, patience. "Keep the Fräu warm, of course. We will start gently."
As the Pyro walked toward the Cook, she watched his dark brown eyes light up, pulling the scars tight around his smile. He had bothered to change clothes, from his usual asbestos suit into a worn, comfortable sweater and a pair of faded, torn jeans—neither clothes had the look of something done for fashion, but instead the hard worn look of clothes that had long since become a part of the man who wore them. There was still a cautious look in his eye, but his saccharine sweetness had disappeared, replaced by an odd mixture of longing and hunger, the need to close the space between them, to touch.
"Nice Cook," he said. "Sweet Cook." He crawled slowly across her bed, feline and fluid. "Can I have a kiss, sweet Cook?"
The Cook leaned forward as he sat, knees just brushing hers, and raised his hands to her face. The rough skin of his scars scraped her cheeks gently as he leaned in. His lips brushed hers, smoothly, before coming back. The tip of his tongue flicked against her lower lip, tickling it, and he leaned back slightly to stare at her eyes. "Let me in, sweet Cook. Please let me in."
When she opened her mouth, his tongue skipped along hers, pulling gently until she relaxed. "Sweet Cook," he whispered against her face. "Warm Cook."
When his lips came back to hers, his hands tightened on her face, his lips tensing on hers before taking her lower lip in his teeth and tightening them briefly, painfully, to hear her gasp. "Pretty Cook made pretty noise last night, kept me up listening. Pretty Cook will make noises for us now." The kiss became soft again, and the Pyro's hands trailed slowly down the Cook's face, gliding over her t shirt and finding its end, tugging and then slipping beneath it to skim her stomach with the same, soft touch. "Touch me, pretty Cook."
The Cook opened her hands and reached out for his arms, finding them solid with muscle beneath his sweater. She tugged at it until he sat back, pulling it over his head, exposing a plain white tank top, holes singed in the cotton. Beneath it, the scars writhed across his chest as if he had been partially melted on one side, leaving a chest that was half smooth, and half covered in palest purple dips and whorls. She pulled at the tank top and he shifted, letting her bring it over his head. His dark, matted hair stood up in a cowlick, and the slight bulge of his belly hung over his belt. He was mostly hairless, and the skin of one nipple had melted back into his chest. The Pyro sat patiently as she looked him over, the expression on his face slowly changing from pleading to hunger.
"You were burned very badly, weren't you," she said, voice faltering.
He hissed at her, leaning back, eyes wide and wild. When the Medic growled from his chair, the Pyro leaned back in, grabbing her face briefly and digging his fingers into it. "The flame kisses and kills, sweet Cook. It is beautiful and deadly."
She froze, shocked, and he took advantage of that pause to pull the t shirt over her head gently, then unhooked her bra, pulling it from her. "The animals bit you, sweet Cook. Do you taste sweet?"
Before the Medic could warn him off, the Pyro grabbed a handful of her hair and bit down on the unmarked side of her neck. His tongue flicked the skin between his teeth, digging into the skin of her neck. The hands she raised to push him away curled against themselves and the breath fled her, the shock of pain and arousal driving the thoughts from her head. Just before he broke the skin, the Pyro opened his mouth.
The Medic had to surreptitiously adjust himself—the bite, her look of shocked rapture at the pain, the way her nipples had hardened—he felt a moment of sympathy with the Sniper and Spy. He wanted to hurt her, badly, to make her face redden and her mouth open in a wet oh of shock. It took him a moment to make his voice level, to conquer the urge to get up from his chair and join the two of them on the bed so he could feel that gasp against his skin. "That was not gentle, wilde. Be nice to the Fräu."
The Cook looked at the Pyro, her eyelids heavy. Her thoughts had scattered like birds, driven out by the pain and the feel of the Pyro's mouth and teeth on her neck. The dull throb of her neck beat with the drum of her pulse, and she turned her eyes to a slow survey of the man sitting in front of her, from the sweaty spikes of his hair to the powerful muscles under his chest, shifting under her gaze.
The Pyro grinned, unrepentantly. "She does not mind, Doctor."
"No," the Medic said softly. "I see she does not. A thing to ponder."
The Heavy put a heavy leather bag in front of the Medic before dragging in one of the dining room chairs and shutting the door. As the Heavy settled into the chair, the Pyro cupped her breasts, rasping the scars on his thumbs across the sensitive flesh of her nipples. He smiled at her, then turned his head to look at the Medic. "Shall we play, Doctor?"
"Continue, Pyro. Be most kind to our kätzchen. Let us see if she purrs before I play with her."
The Pyro put a hand against the center of her chest and pushed gently. "Lay down, sweet Cook."
When she settled back against the bed, he pulled the sweatpants from her, leaving her black panties as a stark contrast to the un-tanned skin of her waist and thighs, her hair a mass of scarlet ribbons trailing across the sheets. She watched him stand, kick off his shoes and push his jeans down, leaving his short, fat cock to bob gently. The scars on his chest continued down his body, leaving a rough patch on the side of his cock and swirling down his mostly hairless thighs. He crawled to her across the bed, dragging his hot skin along hers until he could lay beside her. His eyes, heavy-lidded and intent with hunger, looked down at hers, and he smiled, encouragingly. "It will be okay," he whispered, and stroked her face.
At the sound of cloth moving, the Cook turned her head to see the Heavy pull his shirt over his head, watching the Medic. The Heavy knew his lover well enough to know that the seeming disinterest and distance he projected was a mask. The man was aroused, but as usual insisted on controlling it and himself, on dulling that need to a slow burn. The Heavy looked at the distant, glassy expression on the Medic's face. He knew the man missed women, but the degree to which that longing affected his lover was worrisome. The Heavy looked over at the woman, at her body moving under the Pyro's hands, and the Medic's shortening breath.
The Pyro's hot mouth closed over the Cook's nipple, and she bit her lower lip, taking a sharp breath in through her nose as warmth spread its fingers through her. When she opened her eyes again, she looked down at the top of the Pyro's head between her breasts, hair whirled and scalp pale. The tips of his fingers curled around her breasts, bringing them together with a warm, firm pressure so that he could alternate between nipples. She rolled her head against the bed loosely, looking over at the Medic, who dropped his shirt on the floor. A thin layer of fat did little to hide the back and chest muscles of a man who often carried a heavy load, the silver in his chest hair merely decoration. He sat back down in his pants and boots, and gestured at the Heavy. "The rest of it, now."
It was not easy, the Heavy thought, to obey him while they had an audience, this audience. But he stepped out of his pants, a servant as much of habit as his lover, and sat back on the floor by the Medic's knee, his eye drawn from the black leather of the Medic's boot to the mouth-watering bulge in his slacks. The Medic looked over at him with a knowing, scorching smile on his thin lips. "We will get to that, Mischa."
The Cook's eyes fluttered closed again as the Pyro sucked hard enough to draw the whole tip of her breast into his mouth. When she opened her eyes again, the Heavy sat back on his heels, naked, by the Medic's knee. The man was huge, a thick layer of fat over thigh muscles the size of both her legs, what the men at the bar referred to as hard fat—a layer of insulation over a body that could put his fist and another man's head through a brick wall. The Medic rubbed the stubble of the Heavy's head with a hand, idly stroking as one might a pet. The Heavy's huge cock sat flaccid against his thigh as he waited patiently for the Medic to speak. The Medic watched the Cook as she moaned quietly, a streak of blood that had traveled his cheek to the hollows of his shoulders flaking as he breathed, his face cool and sardonically amused. The Medic raised his free hand, elbow on the arm of the chair, and cradled his chin on it.
"More noise, Pyro."
The Cook turned her head to see the Pyro's crooked smile. Changing his grip, he pinched her nipples first gently, then hard enough to bring prickling tears to her eyes. She gasped and he smiled gently at her, releasing them and stroking her breasts in lazy, warm circles. She shifted underneath him, a whine breaking through her lips.
"Sweet Cook is whining. I heard her beg. Will she beg for me?" The Pyro scooted down, lifting her thighs and settling between them. Like a cat, he rubbed his face against her panties, huffing the salty, sweet scent of her arousal. He settled his hands under her ass and lifted it, nibbling first the tender skin around the edge of her panties and then in, nipping at her lips through the silk.
"Ohhh…." The Cook moaned, hips rolling in his hands. The first, rough lick through the silk was frustratingly faint. "No!" She reached down, plucking at her panties. "Please."
The Medic looked at her swollen lower lip, sticking out in an unconscious pout. She is delightfully transparent, he thought. No guessing with this one. "Not yet, Fräu, not yet." He reached for the back of the Heavy's head and brought it toward the zipper on his slacks. "Not with your hands, Mischa. Open it with your mouth."
The Heavy hooked his tongue around the zipper, pushing the flap over it down and bringing the zipper to his teeth. With a careful movement of his head, he dragged the zipper down.
The Cook made a sobbing noise in the back of her throat as the Pyro grazed her with his teeth, the sensation maddeningly softened by the fabric of her underwear.
The Heavy, his muscular lips and tongue aided only slightly by his hands, slid the Medic's cock out of his slacks and sucked it into the back of his throat. The Medic grunted at the feel of the Heavy's tongue tugging, rubbing the bottom of his cock with a heavy, slick warmth. The Medic took a sobbing breath, but did not dare close his eyes. Instead, he dug his fingernails into the skin of his palms, distracting himself from the Heavy's exquisite skill with effort. He looked down briefly to see the slight curl of the man's mouth. Ah, the Medic thought with dark amusement, so he's going to play at jealousy, to prove himself the most interesting lover. His toes curled in his boots as the Heavy freed his balls from his slacks without breaking suction. The Heavy caged the Medic's balls in his fingers, a warm, gentle pressure that made the Medic's eyelids flutter, then pulled his head away from the Medic's cock. The Heavy sucked the Medic's balls into his mouth, rolling his tongue over them. The Medic hissed at him and dug his fingers into the Heavy's scalp. "Slow!"
The Cook growled and reached for the Pyro's head, legs shuddering. The faint pressure of his tongue and mouth rode that fine line between tickling and enough pressure to let her finally have what she craved. The Medic barked at her, his tone roughened by arousal.
"Nein! Hands down, Kätzchen."
She curled her fingers into fists and bounced them off the bed as the Pyro teased her, tickling her inside of her thighs with a rough tongue and pulling gently at her clit until it pressed painfully against her underwear.
"Wet Cook," the Pyro said between nibbles. "Will she beg?"
The Pyro's eyes were crinkled at the corners with silent laughter as he looked up from between her legs, his face wet and slick. As she looked down at him, he took a slow, deliberate bite of the inside of her thigh, his eyes rolled up to watch her face, startling the words from her in a gush of sound. "Oh fuck, please." She realized she was whimpering like a puppy: faint, high sounds in the back of her throat pouring out of her with each breath.
"Beg me, Fräu, not him." She turned her head to see the Heavy's head bobbing in the Medic's lap. He looked at her, eyelids fat and lips swollen. An errant lock of hair had fallen in front of his face, a black wave dangling near one eye. His glasses had slipped down his nose, letting him look at her with unfocused, blue eyes. "You should always beg me."
"Please, Medic. Please please please please oh god please…" She ran out of breath, watching the Medic's body move with the Heavy's head, chasing his mouth. The Medic's head fell back the expose the long line of his throat and moaned. His eyelids fluttered, and he pulled his head down before responding. "Very well, Pyro."
With a pleased smile, the Pyro pushed her panties to the side and gave her a long, hard lick from bottom to top. The Cook shrieked, coming off the bed. With a muffled curse, the Medic pushed the Heavy from his cock. "Not yet, Mischa, not yet." The Medic pressed the Heavy's wet face to his thigh in his slacks and took a deep breath. "You may touch me, but it is not time."
The Heavy put a warm hand around his lover's cock, stroking. The Medic was rarely so sensitive, so easily aroused and quick. He teased his lover gently, watching the Medic's face to see how close he could get him to the edge as his lover tried to concentrate on directing the scene in front of him.
Between the Cook's legs, the Pyro pushed his tongue inside her. A shudder rippled through her, her breasts bobbing above his head. Her hips rolled above his tongue as he pulled it out, flicking her swollen clit. She whined again and tried to scoot forward, into his face, but was stopped by his clutching hands beneath her ass. The Pyro leaned forward and bit her clit gently, sucking at the small flesh between his teeth. Her whole body writhed on the bed, rolling and bucking against his mouth. He smiled, then bit the inside of her thigh hard enough to bruise. The Cook screamed, curling forward over his mouth with the sudden, visceral fear of being eaten. When he let go of the inside of her thigh, he left a ring of tooth marks stamped on the smooth flesh between them.
"Doctor, I want inside her."
The Medic's breath was short, his voice choked. "Make her work a bit. Put her on top."
The Pyro pushed at her until she came up on her knees, then slid up between her legs. Grabbing her hips, he slid into her, pushing at the muscles of her cunt until he could fit himself in. "Better," he announced. "Sweet Cook is a tight fit."
His cock was too short to bump her cervix, but wide enough to make her feel full, stretched by his width and nearly uncomfortable. Her panties pushed him slightly to the side, rubbing against them both.
The Medic reached for the Heavy's hand, stopping it, and took a slow breath. "Dance on him, Kätzchen. Make him happy."
She slid her hips forward slightly, shifting the Pyro inside her. He reached a calloused, scarred hand between her thighs and gently stroked her clit, encouraging her. As she started to roll her hips harder, she saw him close his eyes. The fingers stroking her clit never stopped, even as the rhythm of her hips started to stutter. As she came, moaning hoarsely, his eyes fluttered open and he bucked up into her. "More, pretty Cook."
The second orgasm came on the heels of the first, rolling through her like a current. While her cunt fluttered around him, the Pyro groaned and came inside her. She slumped over him, hair a fall across one shoulder and veiling his face. They panted together, faces inches apart, hearts hammering and then slowing. His eyes glittered up at her. "Pretty Cook. I should make you a brand, pretty Cook." He bucked forward again. "So you can remember me." She shivered as his cock rubbed inside her, oversensitive, her nipples still tight from the orgasm.
The Medic tucked himself back in his slacks and pushed the glasses back up on his nose, composing himself again. "Now that we have made the Kätzchen purr, let us see if she will roar." The Medic stood up, and reached into the leather bag, something clinking under his fingers. "Mischa," he said, his voice muffled, "you will be my restraints, ja? And Pyro, pet the Kätzchen. She will need it."
The Heavy stood, hands at his sides, and looked over at the Cook. His expression was briefly angry, then resigned. He stepped forward and put a knee on the bed, then lifted her up off the Pyro. "I'm sorry," she whispered, looking at his face. "I don't know what it is, but I'm sorry."
The Heavy sighed. "Is okay. Just was not expecting this."
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, pulling away from him.
The Heavy scowled at her and tightened his fingers. "Stop. Is okay." The bed creaked under the Heavy as he sat, pulling her down so that she leaned against his chest. He laced his broad arms across her chest beneath her breasts. She cringed slightly, and he sighed again, his breath stirring her hair. "Do not worry. Am not angry at you." The cock that lay against her ass felt terrifyingly large, and he shifted until it was trapped upright, between them. The Heavy scooted until his back was against the wall, and cupped her against him, leaving her immobile, but warm. The Pyro sat back beside Heavy, pulling her thighs open and dipping once between them to part her lips and put her on display.
The Medic, standing with a small spiky wheel on a short metal handle between two fingers, clicked his tongue. "Mischa, you have only to say something, as you know."
"Is fine," the Heavy said, his voice starting to heat. "We will discuss later."
"Very well," the Medic said, his voice deeper with irritation. "We shall start easy."
The Medic walked to the bed, grip firming on the handle of the wheel. Leaning over them both, he rolled the spikes gently across her skin from the top of her foot to the inside of her thigh, pricking the bruises made by the Pyro's teeth. When she shifted, the Heavy's arms tightened. "No, little one, be still." She could feel the slow drum of the Heavy's heart against her spine—she still wanted to shrink from him, from the anger she could feel boiling under his skin. When she twisted, the Heavy hissed, tightening his arms painfully. "Stop that." The Heavy looked up at the Medic. "If you do not distract her, she will make a scene."
The Pyro closed a hand over her breast and squeezed gently, the warm pressure coaxing, pulling a gasp from her in a wave of tingling warmth. The Medic leaned forward again, pressing the wheel down until it left a stinging trail of red dots in random patterns—first around a breast, then dipping between her legs to prickle her swollen lips. The Cook whined, rolling away from the wheel.
"Hush, Kätzchen."
She pressed her lips into a hard line to keep herself quiet, watching the tiny metal points wheel across her skin. The Medic rolled over the arches of her feet, making her jump in Heavy's arms. As the wheel ran lazy circles over her skin, it began to buzz, tingling and aching. She bit her lower lip and laid her head back against the Heavy's chest, first bumping awkwardly into his chin, then tilting her head and settling into him as he craned his neck to look down at the Medic's hands.
The Medic smiled up at the Heavy, teeth sharp. "Don't worry, Mischa, I will not make you fuck her. But is not a bad view, ja?"
"No, Doctor," the Heavy said, his voice still tight with anger. "I love your work."
"Tighter now, Mischa. Pyro, play with zhis." The Medic handed the spiked wheel to the Pyro, who thumbed it gently before rolling tightening circles around her breasts. At a rustling noise, the Cook peeped out between lowered lashes, then threw herself backward hard in the Heavy's arms.
In front of her, the Medic twirled a scalpel to catch the light, scattering it across her face. "Well, Kätzchen, will you say it? Will you tell me the word that stops me?"
The Cook panted, bucking in the Heavy's arms, her legs straining on the bed. He swore and clutched her more tightly as she pushed up, raising them both a fraction of an inch in panic.
"You have only to say it, Kätzchen," the Medic said, chiding gently. "Will you say it?"
The Heavy tightened his arms again, crushing her to his chest—inescapable, heart hammering against her back and in her chest. For a moment, she felt like she was flying, dizzied, out of herself. The circle of his arms pulled her down to earth, down to her body, now warm and loose. Her chest still heaved, but she stopped twisting in the Heavy's arms. His cock gave a single throb against her as she went limp in his arms. The Heavy coughed, embarrassed. "Sorry, little one."
"This always was your favorite part, wasn't it, Mischa? Don't worry, we will get to you." The Medic laid the steel against the Cook's nipple, watching it crinkle in response to the cold and fear. He took a slow, shaky breath. "For this, Kätzchen, you must be very still." Her eyelids were heavy again over her eyes, skin flushed and warm, a light dew of sweat beading on her skin. He noticed, with satisfaction, that confinement had done to her what he thought it might, making her feel safer, more relaxed because she could not get away. A classic response, he thought. Not too far out, but best to check. The Medic's voice snapped out, sharp and tense. "What is the word?"
Her voice drawled, slurring the word but still responding promptly, "Orange."
"Very good, Kätzchen."
The first line was parallel to the cut Sniper had made the previous day. The first second was cold, then the cut sizzled through her, crackling up the tree of her nerves. "I... ohhhh…."
The Pyro stopped his endless loops and whirls with the wheel to watch.
"Ja, I thought so. Your file was quite… explicit about your reaction to pain." The Medic leaned forward, licking the line. His saliva stung and her hips jerked forward, involuntarily. His next cut spiraled delicately along the Heavy's forearm. Behind her, the Heavy moaned, rattling her. The Medic bent, rubbing his face along the welling blood and smearing it across his mouth. A warm trickle dripped on her breasts from the Medic's face, and he looked up at her, the blood smeared across his mouth and chin. "Pyro, don't stop teasing the Kätzchen."
The wheel descended on her again as the Medic alternated thin slices on her and the tensing Heavy. The Medic chuckled, the pleasure of causing them both to buck and moan, the copper taste of blood in his mouth making him throb heavily in his slacks. "Some pleasures, Kätzchen, are fine and sharp, rising slowly to their climax. We must be most careful where we cut."
The Heavy, though his eyelashes, could see the distracted flush on the Medic's face. His thoughts were slow, trickling like honey through his head as the pain of the cuts hollowed him out. His lover had, at times, gone into frenzy: cutting and cutting until the object of his desire was a limp, bloody mass beneath him. The Medic was enraptured, painfully hard in his slacks, his cheeks burning and eyes wet, descending into silence as the cuts grew more frequent. The girl curled against his chest had yet to experience the Medic at his most abandoned, and, the Heavy thought, could not bear nor understand what it meant to the Medic. The Heavy's drugged voice curled out of his chest. "Doctor, your Kätzchen is not in respawn. Must be careful."
For a second, the Medic's face contorted in rage. "Ja, Mischa, I know. We will fix this later." His next cut, to the top of one of the Heavy's thick thighs, was deeper. The Heavy drew a sobbing breath, and the Medic dipped his fingers into it. The Cook felt the Heavy's cock soften slightly under the pain and rubbed herself gently against him in sympathy, then froze, knocked out of her rapture.
"Do not show him mercy, Kätzchen. He is not so delicate." The Medic's accent thickened. "This is true, is it not, Mischa?"
"Yes, Doctor." Tension, the hot edge between enough and too much, gathered in him where he lay trapped between them, sweat slicking his cock as it rubbed against her. The Heavy bit his lower lip hard, pulling his thoughts away from the feel of himself sliding against her skin, increasingly desperate for release.
"There is more to pleasure than the orgasm, Kätzchen." The Medic was breathing hard, and as she watched, a drop of sweat rolled down the side of his neck. The muscles stood rigid in his arms and chest, flesh shivering as he fought for control. After a moment, he closed his eyes and the hills and valleys of muscle laid down. The Medic opened his eyes and sighed.
She felt the Heavy relax against her, slowly, inch by inch forcing his muscles to loosen. "Do not worry, little one. He is most careful of himself."
The Pyro ran the wheel over the arch of her right foot as the Medic leaned over to make his first cut on her hip, tickling her. Bucking up into the scalpel, she sank it deep into the skin over her hip bone. When she sank back down with a gasp, the scalpel was bloodied to the beginning of the handle.
The Medic froze, watching the blood well up on the skin of her hip as her breath sped up, the expression on his face hungry and worried. This time, it was the Pyro that leaned forward to lick the wound, smearing his face in it roughly as she cringed against the Heavy. The Medic hissed at the Pyro, "Be good, or I will make you go."
The Pyro smiled at him, guileless. "But it looks so fun."
The Cook could not stop herself from a small moan—something in the shock of it, something in her nerves screaming and burning, the feel of the Heavy's warm arms confining her and the Medic's visible struggle to maintain self control despite the urge to violence. Something about the danger, and the fear, and the desperate pressure to orgasm she could feel pulling at her strings as if she were a puppet: she wanted their attention, wanted to be fucked and hurt and to scream herself hoarse, heat rising up her spine. Both men looked at her, blood smeared across their lips. It caught in the Pyro's scars, making lighter and darker pockets across his face.
The Medic paused, and cleared his throat. "Let us stop the wheel for a moment."
The Heavy and Cook grumbled together.
"Ah, see, they are quite alike. Heavy, scoot her down and pin her legs."
The Heavy pushed at her shoulders, sliding her down until her head rested against the thick slab of muscle just above his pubic hair. His heels hooked against her legs, pulling them apart.
"The veins are quite close to the skin here, so you must be still or we will cause great damage. Remember your words, Kätzchen."
She could hear her pulse in her ears, roaring, and the flesh of her thighs shook as the Medic laid the scalpel briefly against her clit, the metal still shockingly cold. Her breath huffed out, ragged, and she whimpered. As he traced the lines of her lips just lightly enough not to cut, the Medic described the blood vessels beneath the skin, alternating clinical words with guttural German. The Pyro climbed up on the bed, laying on one elbow to watch her face and the scalpel.
The Cook could not speak. Small, high pitched noises poured out of her mouth and her hammering heart beat as if trying to climb out of her chest. The dull side of the scalpel briefly pressed between her legs, picking up the liquid between them.
"Pretty Cook is still wet."
"Oh yes, that she is. She is still not quite gone yet, so we shall have to work a little harder."
The Cook's eyes closed as the bag rustled again. A cold cream against her lips made her flinch. The cream rapidly warmed, itching and burning. The rushing in her ears grew louder as the fingers bearing the cream slipped inside her and she began to burn from the inside.
The Medic wiped his fingers on his slacks. "That should do it. Pyro, with your help?"
The Pyro pulled her limp body from the Heavy.
"On their knees, facing each other."
"On the bed, Doctor?"
"Ja. You may have her. I will take my Mischa."
The Pyro pulled her to her knees, nearly mouth-to-mouth against the Heavy, whose sleepy blue eyes stared into hers. She watched a shudder ripple up his body as the Medic applied a mixture of the same cream and lube to him. The Pyro left her arms down, and guided himself into her with a contented grunt. The burning made him seem huge, and her slack mouth groaned. The Heavy echoed her seconds later, when the Medic thrust into him. Blood made a hot, slow trail down her hip.
"Let us see what noises we can make."
The Pyro set up an ungentle rhythm inside her after pulling one of her arms up and putting her fingers on her clit. "Make noise, pretty Cook."
The Medic grabbed the Heavy's arms and pulled them up behind him, using them as levers to fuck the Heavy harder. The Heavy's moans started quiet, but quickly became ragged, loud, and hoarse. The Medic chuckled breathlessly. "No, Mischa, you will not come until I let you."
"Squeeze me, pretty Cook." The wet slap of the Pyro's hips against her reminded her of the previous night, of the ache she'd been ignoring all day.
When she came, she found the Heavy watching her. His eyelids slid closed again seconds later as the Medic gave a particularly vicious twist of his arms. Behind her, the Pyro's rhythm started to stutter. "Give me another, pretty Cook. One more." He grabbed her hips, lifting her slightly from the bed to get a better angle, and she howled.
Behind the Heavy, the Medic's voice lost its smooth purr and he gasped. "You may touch yourself now, Mischa. Come for me."
Seconds later, the Heavy's face contorted and he roared, splattering the Cook's bed. Watching him, and with the Pyro pounding into her, she came with a guttural cry. The Pyro joined her, the warmth touching off a new wave of burning inside her. The Medic was the last to come, raking his fingernails in bloody furrows down the Heavy's back as he did. When the Pyro pulled himself out of her, he curled against her headboard and pulled her down to him. "Relax, pretty Cook."
The Medic pulled himself out of the Heavy and petted him absently. "Get the gun, Mischa."
"What? No, I said I didn't want to die!" The Cook scrambled backward, meeting the Pyro's chest, and tried to climb over him. He grabbed her and pulled her into his chest, rolling with her and making soothing noises in her ear.
The Medic laughed quietly. "Nein, Kätzchen. This is not that kind of gun."
The Heavy pulled a wide-mouthed, large black implement and a backpack from the bag, emptying it. He handed it to the Medic. "Very good, Mischa. You can go first."
The Medic aimed the device, flicking it on with a practiced movement of his wrist, and a beam of red light curled around the Heavy. As she watched, the lines on the Heavy's skin closed and he took a deep breath. The Medic turned, pointing the device at the Cook and Pyro. The beam itself was warm, intoxicating. The Cook went limp against the Pyro, who slumped down behind her.
"I don't know what you put in that, Doctor, but it's good." The Pyro flicked sweat off his short hair and put his chin on top of the Cook's head. "It's as good as some of the things they gave me at the hospital last time I got burned."
The Medic aimed the beam at himself for a moment, closing his eyes behind his lenses. "A little of this, a little of that. Nothing too bad." He pushed the backpack to the floor and laid the device on top of it. "Come here, Mischa, and lay near me."
The Heavy, too long to fit sideways on the Cook's bed, laid his upper body down, legs sprawling off the bed. The Medic propped himself up on his elbow and stroked the fur on the Heavy's chest idly. "Pet the good Kätzchen, Pyro."
The Pyro stroked rough fingers down her arm, humming into her hair. The tune wandered quietly, merrily, tonelessly, and she realized the sound was comforting. He took a deep breath, nose pressed to her scalp, and sighed, contented. The Medic pulled off his sweat-dappled glasses and looked around, then handed them to the Heavy, who held them loosely in his hand. Without the glasses, his eyes were tired—less intense than overworked. "Tell me, Kätzchen, what did our Sniper and Spy do together, with you?"
"Hmmm," she said, unsure how to phrase what she'd observed, or even what to say. After a moment, she decided the comparison was probably apt enough. "They were a bit like you and Heavy."
The Medic barked a laugh, the lines beside his eyes crinkling. "I should have known. They have been fighting like cats since they were assigned here. Mischa and I," the Medic stroked his lover's arm and gave him a brief smile, "came to our agreement in a more civilized fashion."
The Heavy turned his head into his lover's chest for a moment, unselfconsciously, high on the lingering effects of his orgasm. He gently kissed the Medic, then turned his sleepy gaze back to the Cook and Pyro.
"And which," the Medic continued, his tone gentled by the affection, "was on the top?"
"Oh. Both of them, I think. They talked about taking turns."
The Medic smiled and looked off, speculatively. "Interesting. I am not surprised by our Spy—he is a flexible man. The Sniper, however…. I wonder."
The Heavy looked up at him, some of the bliss falling away. "Do not want to play with the Sniper. Would not let him have me."
"Oh no, Mischa, I would not let that… man… have you." The Medic's arms tightened, unconsciously, around the Heavy. "I would not let them top me, either. Tell me, Kätzchen, how were they?"
The Cook blushed, a welter of emotions staining her face: guilt, embarrassment, remembered arousal. "It was…they're complicated."
The Medic crooked a dark eyebrow, a look so old-fashioned that it had petrified. "I would think they were simple enough."
"Well, in that way, yes." She was too tired to do much more than blush and lay there, sweat cooling, but a flare of defensive anger spurred her to elaborate. "They're very overwhelming, you know."
The Medic's smile was oddly endearing, softening his face. "I would imagine. All balls and anger. Our tier is often frustrated. And the Spy would play games with his own mother."
Over her head, the Pyro spoke. "I can play with them, but I don't think they would stop me like you do, Doctor."
"No, they would not." Worry sharpened the Medic's expression. "It is best if I get you in the respawn, Kätzchen."
"What's respawn?" The Pyro stiffened behind her for a moment in shock at her words, and even the still sleepy Heavy was startled awake. The Medic's mouth hung open for a moment before he responded. She blinked, and curled slightly, embarrassed, as he spoke.
"RED did not cover this?"
"Not unless it was buried in the contracts I signed."
"Ah," the Medic sighed. "For many details, you will have to ask the Engineer. However, I can tell you that it will prevent you from dying."
"How?"
"Well, when you die, you come back."
"What do you mean come back?"
"You appear in the same shape you were when you were scanned."
"Ah! That's what they meant by not aging."
"Ja. Did they take a blood and tissue sample und do a scan?"
The process had been oddly long—she'd had gynecological exams that were much shorter. They'd scanned her, taken blood, tissue, urine, and hair samples, swabbed her, taken a saliva sample, looked in every orifice, and all but tagged and tattooed her during the five-hour process. "Well, yes, but they said that was for a physical."
"It was, and they made sure you were clean. You are in the system, then. Did you get any shots?"
Her arms twinged in remembered pain. They'd given her at least four shots over a week of interviews, all of which had made her violently ill: vomiting and feverish. The doctors had been so closemouthed they'd never even given her a name or introduced themselves. She'd assumed she was now immune to everything and anything by the time they were done.
"They said something about problems."
"Then you will not get pregnant. We will update the shot in a few months. This should have been in the file I was sent." The Medic clicked his tongue. "No matter. I will call, and they will give me the records. No doubt someone was lazy."
"Does… does it hurt?"
A complicated expression flew across his face, settling on pity. "Fräu, you die. Of course it hurts."
The Cook huddled against the Pyro. "It's not that bad," he said, rubbing her back. "A few seconds, maybe longer, but you can always shoot yourself."
She could hear her pulse in her ears again—a rushing sound that seemed to get louder. The blood left her face, draining painfully as the Medic continued. "Well, and at some point the other team may make it into the base and you will want the respawn."
When she could catch her breath, she rolled her eyes up at him. "They said you have a small war going."
"Ja…" The room was so silent she could hear the fans on the furnace kick in. "Ja, that we do."
The Cook could feel each man's thoughts turning inward, their eyes dulling and sliding away. The Medic and Pyro's hands stilled. The Medic was the first to break the silence. "It is best, I think, if we go now."
The Pyro spoke up behind her. "I can stay, Doctor?"
"No, it is best if you do not."
The Pyro hissed, then slowly climbed over her. "We will see each other again, pretty Cook. Can you make German chocolate cake?"
The Cook looked at his face, hovering over hers. "Of course."
"I would like that." The Pyro pulled himself away and rolled off the bed.
As they dressed, the Cook pulled her stained covers up over her chest and watched. The Medic walked up to the bed. "A thing to know, Kätzchen. We are not nice men. Not all bad men, but not nice men. Some of us are better than others at… containing it. We will be most careful, but at some point, we may forget. If the BLU makes it into the base, you will want to hide. Take at least a knife, but you should also take a gun. If you do not know how to shoot, ask any of us. We are responsible for you to RED. They are not, and if you are lucky, they will simply kill you."
He turned to walk away, speaking over his shoulder. "If you are not, they will take you with them. And you will be a toy they can break."