When she woke, the Heavy was curled around the Medic. Stretching her feet in the warm state between sleep and waking, she found the swelling gone. The broad plane of the Heavy's back was turned to her, the light from the small window picking long, raised scars out against his skin. She looked at them, following them as they disappeared into the blankets, at the flat scars across one shoulder and a pattern of dimpled scars scattered all over his body. Her hand raised involuntarily, looking at them, and she put it down very slowly, her breath equally careful—nothing, she thought. Nothing I've experienced. Nothing I've ever experienced compares to that. I have been so lucky. She slid out of the bed and covered him gently.
Before leaving the room, she paused at the foot of the bed to look at them. They faced each other, faces loose in sleep. The Heavy laid compressed, arm tucked under his head and the other wrapped tightly around himself. The Medic lay with a hand out, seemingly seeking the Heavy even as he slept. As she watched, the Medic's hand flexed and covered the distance between them, seeking and finding the arm the Heavy had wrapped around himself. The Heavy made a soft sound in his sleep, the arm loosening.
Her eyes prickled again. I'm a watering pot, she thought, mocking herself but following the line of their bodies one more time before slowly pushing the doors open and leaving the surgery.
She unwrapped her feet, looking at the smooth, new skin, and took a quick shower. The early hour and what she'd seen made her crave the silence, for contemplation and simply because she had nothing she felt like saying. The Spy was still up when she entered the kitchen, his ordinarily neat suit rumpled, and his shirt hanging crookedly from his shoulders. He was unshaven, and the bags beneath his eyes were bluish. He turned, looking at her, and sighed.
She cleared her throat and spoke quietly. "Do you want coffee?"
He knocked the ash from his cigarette into the sink. "Yes, Vipere," he said, voice tired. "I think that would be well."
She put a kettle on the stove and searched for the beans, finding them across the kitchen from their normal storage spot—someone had moved them. She grabbed the beans and loaded the grinder, with a surge of annoyance. After she ground the beans, she turned, finding him searching her face, eyes ticking back and forth across it. "Are you well, Vipere?"
He stayed up all night, she thought. And he's worried about something. "I might be." Relief openly washed over his face. He's actually worried about me, she thought, surprised. "I want to kill him, she said. "I want to kill all of them."
He gave her a half-smile. "I understand." More than you know, Vipere, he thought. More than you know. He put his elbows on the counter and leaned back on them, squinting at her through the smoke trail wafting up next to his face. You might be well is better than I expected. "I would want to do the same."
"And then I want…" Her mouth worked, brimming with contradictory desires, things that made no sense to her: lust, the desire to be held, the desire to be close and safe. She wanted to see the BLU soldier cry, to choke the life from him herself. She wanted to know that no one could scare her again. She wanted to fuck because she could, because she chose to fuck.
The Spy's free hand rubbed the skin between his eyebrows, a vicious headache stabbing at his eyes. "To wash him from you," he muttered. I should have known it would hit her like this. Some of them run, some of them hide, some of them stuff, and some people want to fuck back. Of course, wanting is not doing or doing well. He opened his eyes, seeing the surprise on her face, and grimaced with annoyance. "What, Vipere, did you think that rape is a tool of war to be used on just women?"
She looked him up and down, noticing the fine tremor in the fingers which held the cigarette. "No, I know better." It is just wall-to-wall bad shit around here, she thought. Jesus.
The Spy sighed. "On your own time, Vipere. All things must happen on their own time. I will keep the Sniper busy. He does not understand, and he is very angry. He wants to erase the BLU soldier from you. Solly has been… I have never seen so much blood on him. As for the Demo…" He ran out of words, one hand circling in the air aimlessly.
The Cook looked at him, measuring, and gave a slow nod. She pushed the plunger on the French press down, watching the grounds fight her as the filter forced them down.
"Vipere, I cannot occupy our Sniper for too long. He will, eventually, want to come to you in his own way. I do not know how you will take it. I will try my hardest." The Spy stubbed his cigarette out in the sink and turned on the water, washing the mess down the drain.
"I understand." She poured them both a cup and they stood, quietly drinking, for some time.
For the next four days, the Spy sat between the Sniper and Cook, skillfully redirecting conversations away from her. She smiled, nodded, and said very little during meal times, going to bed early from the effort of smiling, nodding, and trying to make conversation. The effort of showering dizzied her, the effort of dressing more so, and by the time the dinner dishes had been washed she was teetering on collapse. Words seemed impossibly difficult.
She couldn't figure out what to say to them all.
The Spy spent four days telling jokes that were filthy beyond belief whenever the conversation lulled—she had not realized there were that many jokes about country girls and barnyard animals, nor had she realized that there were that many novelty sex acts. When she'd been able to concentrate enough to follow the conversation, she'd gotten an education she hadn't known existed. My god, she thought on the third day. Even the guy who used to joke about fucking the poultry before we cooked it wasn't this perverse. The Spy was midway through a description of something that, if she'd only seen the gestures, she would have assumed was a description of stuffing a turkey, squinting through his fifth cigarette at dinner. The act he was describing might as well have been stuffing a turkey, assuming one wished the turkey to resemble something H.P. Lovecraft might have had nightmares about.
He's been smoking at dinner, she realized, staring at him. He wasn't smoking at dinner before. She looked around the table. Haggard, angry men looked back. I don't know what to say about that, either.
On the fifth day, the Sniper came in before the siren that ended the day's battle. He stood in the doorway, watching her stir a pot, twitching at every sound. When he cleared his throat to let her know he was standing behind her, she jumped, flinging a spoon full of soup across the back of the stove. She stared at him, wild-eyed for a moment. Come on, he thought, worry mixing with irritation. Recognize me.
"I should have been expecting this," she said quietly. "I still don't know what to say to anyone." She looked over at the long streak of soup on the stove behind her and grunted. "Fuck. I just cleaned that."
He set his rifle down against the counter and covered the distance between them in a few, long-legged strides. "Are you avoiding me? Are you avoiding all of us?" She edged back and he growled, advancing again. "Tell me what we did."
The Cook put down the spoon and sighed, gripping the edge of the cabinet. "You haven't done anything wrong." He was vibrating with tension, body straining to cover the last inch between them and held back by—by what, she thought. It's not like I could do anything about it. No, I could. I could do something, I just don't know what.
He looked down at her face, at the weariness on it, the resignation, the fine hairs escaping her bun and sweat on the collar of her shirt. "Don't avoid me. Just… please don't. Let me do something." Come back, he pleaded silently. We can see you sitting there and no one knows what to say. Sneak babbles into the silence and we all sit there like wankers. No one knows how to fix it and make you happy.
"I won't avoid anyone. I'm not avoiding anyone." I'm stuck, she thought. That's what this is. I'm frozen and I don't want to be frozen.
He watched anger start to heat her face. Good, he shouted at her silently. Get angry. Get something, just stop drifting. The Sniper pushed up his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. "Give me a chance. Give us a chance to do something."
She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. "It's not about you, Sniper. It's not about any of you."
You want to be angry, little Bird, he thought. Be angry at me. Be angry at all of us. Just do something. "I know," he said, eyes restlessly roving her face. "Sneak won't shut up about it, won't stop telling me to let you have your space. I have. I don't like this. You need to do something. We need to do—"
She interrupted him, a frisson of recognition travelling up her spine. I did want to do something, she thought. "I want to kill him myself."
Oh thank Christ—the Sniper wanted to pick her up and roar with relief—I understand this, he thought. I can help with this. He took a breath and let it out slowly. "Wanna get the wanker by rifle or by knife?"
"Both. I just want to—" Her hands flexed in midair, strangling an invisible opponent. I want to finally do something about it, she thought. I want to see him die, to stop waking up terrified that he's in my room. The malaise lifted, and she realized she was genuinely excited. The Sniper was grinning broadly at her, and she realized she was grinning back.
Sneak, goddamn it, he thought, we should have suggested this earlier. "I've been doing it all week. It's really satisfying. Come out with me tomorrow. I'll have to help you, but it'll be fun." The Sniper paused, cautious. "I've never killed a man with a sheila. Have you ever…"
"No, but I'll learn." She smiled viciously at him. "And I'll practice until I get it right."
Oh you beautiful, beautiful Birdie—he had to stop himself from grabbing her face and kissing her dizzy. Just got her moving, don't shock her back. "Let's gut the wanker together." His fingers hovered over hers, and she reached out to capture them.
"Let's."
The next morning, the Sniper woke her early, calling her softly from the door to her room. When she sat up, he saw the purple shadows under her eyes, the thin fragility of her skin, and knew that whatever dream he'd interrupted was best not discussed. He placed the butt of the rifle against the floor, holding it loosely by the barrel, and leaned against the door frame, waiting for her.
He watched her pull on a heavy shirt, layering her clothes to hide every inch of skin possible. The Sniper decided to let her find out the hard way that the room he was using as a nest would be stiflingly hot—she seemed to need to hide, and could just shed a layer if she got sweaty. When she had covered herself from head to toe, she straightened, finally able to stand.
He extended a hand, beckoning, and re-shouldered his rifle. Her hand was clammy and limp in his. "Come on," he said. "Let's go find a good spot." The Sniper led her out onto the field, to one of the ramshackle wooden buildings. Together, they climbed the stairs, and crawled into a tight space on the top floor with a small slit overlooking the surrounding area, where he had cut part of the cover out of a vent.
"Birdie, they may kill us, but we'll take some with us." The Sniper turned to her, searching her face. "You still want to do this?"
She made eye-contact for the answer, her whole body finally stable and still. "Yes."
The Sniper unrolled a thin foam pad, putting a blanket over it, and sank down on his stomach. "Then come lay down."
She lowered herself slowly, gingerly, a few inches from him and waited.
The Sniper scooted over, laying shoulder to shoulder with her. "Put the butt against your shoulder, right there in the hollow." He pushed the rifle over on its tripod. "Don't put your eye right up on the scope, leave a few inches."
The Cook reached out carefully for the rifle, her fingers hesitant on the big gun.
He put a hand on her back and she flinched, then let him pet her back. "You have to relax. Solly said he was taking you shooting. He said you can hit a can?"
"Yeah," she said, squirming around the rifle butt to get it in the hollow of her shoulder.
"Just like that. Track anyone you want, but don't tense up. And one shot and stop, don't keep pulling the trigger. This ain't a competition for kills—we're providing tactical support, keeping the rest of RED from getting their asses blown off." She started to tense again, her back becoming hard under his fingers. "No, don't tense up, relax." The hand on her back rubbed gentle circles. "Relax, Birdie."
He rubbed quietly until he could feel her start to loosen again.
"When you're ready to shoot, Birdie, take a breath and hold it as you pull. We'll trade off shots. It's going to kick like a bitch, so keep it in the groove on your shoulder and don't get too close to the scope."
She smiled tentatively at him, looking away from the scope, and noticed a neat pile of empty jars in the corner. "What's with all the jars?"
The Sniper shifted uncomfortably. "I'm stuck up here all day unless they find me, and that's less likely if I'm not moving. Gotta piss in something." He smiled. "And I use the full jars ever so often to check for the BLU spy."
"Are you serious?" He saw the beginnings of a smile on her lips.
"Yep. I did you a favor and washed up a bit in here. I didn't think you wanted to smell it."
"Shit. So what do I do if I have to pee?"
The Sniper couldn't help himself, even if he had tried. "Get good at aiming."
The Cook looked at him and finally laughed, short and soundless, and he smiled.
They both turned back to the field as the opening siren wailed. He let her have the gun first, keeping his hand on her back to keep rubbing those same, gentle circles. "We'll trade off, Birdie. Shot for shot."
Her first shot went wild and they both ducked flat, laying with their heads pressed against the pad, and waited to see if anyone found them. Thirty seconds of distant mayhem ensued as he stared at her, watching the tension in her face. She can pull the trigger, he thought, watching a thin line of sweat roll down her face. But what happens when she shoots someone? Can you, Birdie? Can you do it?
His first shot nailed the BLU Pyro coming out of their base. He opened a small utility knife and made a divot in the wall beside them. She watched him, noticing that the wall was full of tiny divots.
"How many are there?"
"Thirty-seven." The Sniper cleared his throat. "They ain't found this one yet." He handed the rifle off and went back to rubbing circles, watching her try to line up a target. She flinched several times, but didn't quite pull the trigger. Don't over-think it, he urged her silently. Those are targets. Funny little men doing things far away that go boom when you pull. The Sniper kept rubbing circles, watching her flinch and decide, then track again. After a few minutes, she looked up at him, her face conflicted.
"Don't over think it," he said. "We all have respawn, so nothing is permanent. Think of them like bottles on the wall. You can always get another bottle." There is always, he added silently, another target. Get any two people on the earth in contact with one another and there'll be work for one of us.
She went back to the scope and he kept rubbing, patient as only a hunter can be and watching her track and decide. She was starting to get frustrated. He could feel it in the tightening muscles of her back. Maybe, he thought with a frown of concentration, she needs to start with revenge?
The Sniper leaned down, whispering just above her ear. "You can make him pay, Birdie. You can make them all pay."
Her finger twitched, the shot hitting the BLU heavy in the leg and nearly tearing it off. There was a distant bellow of agony and he beamed at her. Not a headshot, Birdie, he thought joyfully, but you crossed the line. You're one of us, lady-love. He shivered once, half-hard, and looked down at her with hooded eyes.
No, he thought. Not yet. But soon. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to peel the ridiculously heavy clothing from her and slide himself into her as she lined up shots, killing, his body fitting into hers so that they were one person at the rifle. He wanted to balance on his elbows, buried inside her, his fingers covering hers on the trigger so he could feel her pull, so that he could feel the ecstatic joy of the kill echoing through both their bodies. Do you feel like I do, Birdie, he asked silently. Do you feel it?
She lingered at the scope, watching the BLU heavy fall, and he let her. Come on, Birdie. Don't feel guilty, be excited. When she looked up, there was a questioning shadow in her eyes and he smiled reassuringly. "Good one, Birdie! Let's see their Medic glue that one back on." The shadow was still there, and he looked down at her, face growing serious. "It's just like bottles, I promise. He'll be back out of respawn in a few minutes without a single scar from it."
After a moment, she smiled—a tiny little thing, and troubled, but still a smile. He's proud of me, she thought. Really proud of me. He leaned forward slowly and pressed a kiss to her scalp, a single light kiss that felt heavy somehow. Dense. I did it. Well, some of it. I still have to find the Soldier.
When she put the gun back to her shoulder, he laughed. "No, it's my turn, Birdie. Save some for me." He handed her the knife. "Make a notch on your side when you hit someone."
The Sniper took the rifle and scanned the area through the scope. The BLU Medic was crouched over the Heavy, gun in hand, and received a large hole in his head for his pains. He motioned for the knife, and when she handed it to him, notched the wall again. "Wait a bit, Birdie. It's easier to find us if we keep firing."
They spent a few minutes staring out of the vent, watching their teammates kill and die. "See, Birdie," he said. "They pop right back up. No permanent harm done."
She watched the combat. The distance made it seem unreal, cartoonish: fountains of dirt, blood, and flesh. The desert sun flashed blindingly from knives, guns, rocket launchers, grenades, and hundreds of pounds of metal bent into killing shapes. It never ended—death was followed in a few minutes by reappearance, and the fighters took chances that seemed ridiculous. Solly, flying through the air, jumping off buildings to land on small figures in blue uniforms. The Pyro charging across the field, axe in hand, through a hail of grenades. The bullet jackets from the Heavy's gun glittered like water, a moving stream around him. Up and down. In and out. It was dizzying.
When she turned her head, the Sniper was laying on his side, watching her closely with a small smile on his face. "This is our world, Birdie, and now you're a part of it. What do you think?"
The Cook turned back to the combat. "It seems unreal."
"It is," he said. "We can't die, really. I'm probably ruined for real contracts any more. Too used to being able to take risks." And there's not a government on earth, he thought, that still has identification for me. Pity.
He pushed the barrel over. "All right, your turn."
Her next shot was faster, hitting the BLU Demo as he stopped to reload. She looked over at the Sniper guiltily. "I was aiming at the soldier."
The Sniper considered her face for a moment—if you were less fragile, he thought, we'd be celebrating this with you flat on your back and you wouldn't have time to feel guilty. I'd have to gag you, but you'd be too busy to over think it. "Took me a long time to get accurate, Birdie. It'll come."
He pulled the gun over and found the BLU Soldier ducking behind a building. The Sniper aimed at the other side of the building, waiting. "Come on, come on, wanker," he muttered. "Got to come out some time."
When the BLU Soldier ducked out of the building, the Sniper's shot hit him in the hip, ripping a chunk of bone and skin from him in a wet spatter. The Sniper grinned, feral, and pushed the rifle at her. "Quick, by the little building on the right. Finish him off."
She tracked, finding the BLU Soldier rolling on the ground, screaming soundlessly. She took a breath—nightmares. Six days of nightmares—and squeezed, blowing his head across a five foot circle around his body. His cooling corpse disappeared. She took another breath. I did it, she thought.
There was a gurgling noise beside her and she turned from the scope, confused. The blade slid into her back, twisting in her kidney. It burned like ice, like fire, her whole body screaming that something was wrong, wrong, must come out. She reached back and couldn't grasp the knife. Someone grabbed her wrist, digging a thumb into the nerves on the edge of her wrist.
The BLU Spy sank down beside her, holding her hand companionably. "I told you I'd stab you one way or the other."
She looked at him, the room already going bright, and he rolled her shoulder back to cup her breast, watching her face.
"You'll go into shock in a second, but I wanted to be the one to pop your cherry. And here I was thinking I was just cleaning up the trash." He looked over her to the body of the RED Sniper. "He's not usually this easy to kill. You must be very distracting."
He squeezed her breast, the pain muted by shock, and slowly traced his way up to her face. "Next time I catch you out here," he said, his voice deepening, "I'll incapacitate you and play with you for awhile, first."
"Next time," she gasped, "I'll kill you back."
He smiled as she fainted.
The Cook was standing in a small room. Her mouth tasted like pennies. Beside her, the Sniper took a deep breath. "Fuck, you get used to it, but it never stops being terrible." He looked over at her. "Birdie?"
She looked over at him blankly.
"It'll wear off." He patted her on the shoulders awkwardly. "Just give it a second. Sneak usually lights a cigarette afterward because of the taste. He says it's put him off steak tartare for life."
The Pyro appeared next to them, standing and staring vacantly. After a few seconds, he shook himself like a wet dog and charged out of the room, axe in hand.
The Sniper watched him. "Some motherfucker is about to regret life. Py gets a little enthusiastic sometimes, and when he charges like that, somebody ends up burger meat." He shook his head. "Shit, at least when I do my job, they usually die immediately, not screaming as they melt or hacked into mush."
He turned back to the Cook. "You okay, Birdie?"
She kept staring at him with a vacant expression.
He shook her shoulders, gently. "You're still alive. It takes a moment to convince your body you're still there, but you're still alive."
She took a deep breath, personality flowing back into her eyes. "I fucking died. I really fucking died. I was dead." The Cook looked down at herself. "And now I'm alive again." She patted herself. "I can feel myself. But I was dead. I was really dead and nowhere."
The Sniper smiled wryly at her. "Welcome back, Lazarus. It feels like it, but you didn't quite die. You just… mostly died. Settles the afterlife question, don't it?"
She ran her hands over her arms, staring at the small hairs, and he captured them in his. "I know," the Sniper said. "And it's a real pity that you can't enjoy just being alive, but some wanker killed you."
The Cook took a deep breath, red-faced with sudden rage. "I'm going to kill the little fucker."
The Sniper smiled broadly, relieved. "That's the spirit, Birdie! Welcome to the team." He pulled a rifle out of a nearby box and handed it to her. "Ready to go out again?"
She took it, slinging it over her shoulder. "Fuck, yes. I'm going to blow that little shit to hell."