It was dark, unbearable. The only lights to guide the skulking travelers were shining overhead. No one dared to turn the radio on as they passed into New Mexico. All was quiet, listening and watching for any signs of attack. There was little that the tired eyes of even a long-range assassin could see in this bleak, dreary night.
The trio had expected to find a battle. Buildings burning, people screaming, something chaotic. All that was along the old desert roads were decayed, long abandoned buildings. Not even a place a ghost would want to inhabit. They stopped to rest at a border town, but it had long since folded up and blown away with the wind. Just as well, all things considered. The last thing anyone needed to see was a tank driving down the main street of their sleepy town.
Looming hoodoos hid their destination. The Sniper hopped towards the top of the tank, watching for glowing eyes. The cold wind kept him awake. It picked through his hair, sending shivers down the front of his arms. He shook his head, then dropped back into the vehicle. "Nothin'. Think we're clear."
"Well, 'bout time we had something go our way," the Demoman snorted.
Rusted wheels began to crank slowly in the Engineer's head. "Well, boys. Suppose we'd better get a plan goin'."
The Sniper rubbed his forearms. "We've got enough ammo to hold off a few 'a those buckets 'a bolts. Long as we stick together and don't get caught underground, I think we'll be alroight."
The Demoman gave a nod to the piles of robots behind him. "Should smelt these bastards, too. Can't have one of them wakin' up and reportin' in."
"Good idea," the Engineer agreed. "Once we scrap 'em, I can get to buildin' more supplies. I should have some of my old blueprints 'round here. We can get to work on makin' more weapons and ammo."
"You know, that crazy Jane should have some food tins still in the basement," the Sniper added.
The Engineer pinched his face. "Geez, Mundy. Do you think any of 'em will still be good?"
"It has been a long time. God knows what they're like now," the Demoman groaned. "And we're assumin' that no raccoons got to them. Or thieves."
The Sniper scratched his chin. "I hadn't thought about that. Suppose vandals did wreck up the place?"
"We don't need the Taj Mahal," the Engineer smirked. He gave the steering wheel a soft pat. "Just the little things. A place to sleep, a kitchen, a bathroom—"
The Demoman gave a short snort. "Right. Bathrooms. Did you happen to forget about this foul one?" He pointed a broad thumb at the Sniper's nose. "Like havin' an untrained dog in the house."
The Sniper didn't fight against what the Demoman said. He shrugged, then smirked. "You know, I doubt some ruddy ol' toilet's gonna be workin' without five years of maintenance. We moight all have to hit the bushes."
The Demoman shook his head. "'n I gave up a promising acting career for this…"
The trio fell into silence as the Engineer rounded the last mile. The Sniper went up to the top of the tank again. The vehicle's speed dropped as the Engineer let him get a good look at their surroundings. It was still dark as pitch. Other senses were missing. Outside of the tank's creaking and the light breeze, everything was quiet. There wasn't an electric, hot smell, nor the stench of burning fuel. If there were any signs of life, they were coming from within the tank. The Sniper held his position, then lowered his eye to the scope. He'd have to watch. There couldn't be any risks.
Finally, the hoodoos parted. Gentle sounds bombarded the incoming teammates. Water was trickling at a controlled rate through the dam's walls. The Engineer sighed. He was glad he didn't have to worry about that breaking away. A low hum emanated from a nearby machine. The generator for their side of the territory, no doubt. Dozens of abandoned sentries sat behind the wire fence surrounding the area. They turned to beep at their master, but all they could manage was a little flicker of their lights. The whole area was still sealed shut, the razor-sharp barbed fencing at the top intact and the padlock chaining the gates together dusty and untouched.
"I can't believe it," the Sniper sighed. "Nobody came back? Not even that rotten ol' Spy?"
The Engineer shrugged his shoulders. "They might have come back. Could've been years ago, though. Did the best I could to secure the place before we left, but…" He let hot air roll out of his chest. "I always thought we were gonna come back."
"Well, here we are!" the Demoman blurted. "Now, let's go take care of that lock!"
A normal person would have looked for the key or hired a pickpocket to remove the lock. The Demoman and his companions didn't have that kind of time on their hands. He grabbed a discarded grenade launcher from the back of the van. With one pull on the Sniper's belt, he plucked the Australian out of the top of the tank and placed him in the shotgun seat. The Demoman aimed the launcher out, then pulled the trigger. One grenade hit the lock. It didn't shatter, but the gate doors around it burst. The lock landed with a clump on the desert floor.
"Are you tryin' to make more work for me?" the Engineer asked.
The Demoman didn't feel particularly guilty. "Shut up 'n get goin'."
The trio got out of the tank and entered Hydro. Sentries watched them pass, swiveling their heads quietly. The Engineer was impressed with how long they had lasted. He would have to make sure each and every last one of them was refilled. A strange sensation settled in the centers of their chests as they approached the old base. Massive satellites pointed to the sky. Control points were devoid of energy, but still whole. Every last window was filthy but not shattered.
It felt nostalgic. Like coming home.
They moved in unison, stolen weapons at the ready. They had been tricked too many times before to believe in anything like perfect safety. The Engineer wandered towards a black and yellow switch, then flipped it. The top cover for the satellite's computer center pulled upwards. It squealed in protest as dust and grime clogged the hatch's joints. Finally, the hatch went up.
The men hesitated to descend. They moved in lockstep. As dark as it had been in the night sky, the absolute blackness of this long-abandoned hatch was impenetrable. The Engineer pattered towards long silenced computers. His fake hand shook as he raised it towards a light switch. All three flinched as he threw the lights on.
There was no snarling monster to prey on them. No robots to attack them. It was completely devoid of any threats. The computers began turning once more, coughing dust as they spun their reels. Light slowly ebbed through the domed ceiling. Hunks of metal were left on the ground, jars of medical gel thick and tacky from disuse.
The Engineer picked up one hunk of metal, then smiled. "I think we're in the clear."
"Let's get to work then, yeah?" the Sniper beamed. "I'll prep supper. Maybe see if we've got some bedding scraps around here."
"They've got to be moth-riddled and dusty by now. Don't see how we'll be able to sleep on it," the Engineer replied.
The Sniper shrugged. "Don't know until we try!"
"That's right! Speaking of which, I've got some testing to do of my own," the Demoman smirked. "Let's go see if those old crappers still flush."
He bolted down a passageway, clasping his hands eagerly. Lights flicked on in his wake. It wasn't long before the sounds of running water and laughter went through the base. The Sniper shook his head, then went about his business. A can of soup sounded just about perfect. As long as the basement was dry and dark, and the cans weren't bulging, then they might be alright to eat. The Engineer waited for both men to return, still a little anxious about being separated.
It wasn't long before the Sniper brought up three cans of soup. "Think I can start a fire, if you're hungry."
"We've got a kitchen around here," the Engineer laughed.
The Sniper lifted his head. "Oh. Of course." He chuckled at his strange behavior. "This feels like goin' on a campin' trip to me."
"Not nearly enough hot dogs and s'mores for that," the Engineer joked.
A hot fog came rolling down the base's corridors. The Demoman stepped out of the bathroom, soaked and pleased with himself. "Showers work too, mates. Plenty of soap to go around!"
The Engineer shook his head, then laughed again. "We're gettin' ahead of ourselves, fellas. We've got to make sure this place stays nice 'n safe until our friends arrive."
"Would you give it a rest?" the Demoman sighed. "We're here. It's safe. There's nobody 'n nothin' around for miles. All you've got to do is fix that fence!"
The Sniper nodded in agreement. "Fences can be troublesome."
The Engineer surrendered. He raised his hands, then laughed. "Alright, alright. Take a break, then. I'm gonna go put the gate back together. But when I come back, there'd better be a bowl of soup and hot water available!"
"You've got it, mate," the Sniper promised.
Taking a handful of metal and a forgotten wrench, the Engineer stepped back outdoors. Walking through the field of sentries felt like he was tending a garden. He'd have to get a dispenser up and going for them sometime tonight. He stopped by the front gate, then pushed the gate doors up and together once more. A little rewinding of wires, tightening of nuts, and a few whacks of his wrench had it ready to go in no time. He'd need to solder a few gaps, but it would hold for the evening.
It wasn't what was broken that was going to cause them trouble. It was what was running perfectly.
Most law-abiding, scrupulous citizens would have never punched a cop in the back of the head. Even if they did, they certainly would not throw the cop's body in the back of their vehicle and speed away from a public location like a well-lit gas station. Furthermore, they would not have tried anything as risky as neurosurgery in the back seat of a speeding car. Absolutely not with filthy birds watching!
Of course, the Medic was hardly a man of scruples.
He sat straddled over his victim, cackling as his cohorts in the front seat watched his maniacal actions. The Pyro was fully focused on the patient's face. He sat unwavering, even as doves perched on top of him. The Heavy could barely spare a glance over his shoulder. He was trying to keep the whole operation on the road, out of the prying eyes of other members of the law patrolling the roads.
"Doctor, wait. Let me park," the Heavy said.
The Medic shook his head. He shushed at the driver. "Quiet! You are breaking my concentration."
He was hardly prepped for surgery. No gloves, for starters. He had washed his hands in that gas station bathroom, but that was barely sanitary. He had no hacksaw, no scalpel. Not even a flashlight. All he had was a razor that he had taken from his suitcase. He gave two eerie chuckles, then leaned down.
He dragged the razor across the Soldier's thick, full moustache. "Nobody must have better hair zhan me!"
The Heavy groaned. "Doctor, is no time to be petty."
"If you had any hair, you vould understand!" the Medic replied.
He continued shaving his unconscious teammate. To his credit, he did have a steady hand. It hardly made up for the razor burn he was giving the Soldier's face. He started working on the right side of his former teammate's face, then the left. He stopped once to snicker. The Heavy shook his head. He didn't have to look back to know what stage the Medic had left the Soldier's moustache at.
"Oh, I vish I had a camera!" the Medic exclaimed.
When he was done shaving the Soldier's face, he swished the cut hair away with his hand. He was half-expecting the Soldier to wake up and start sneezing. That pinch to a pressure point on the Soldier's shoulder had really done the trick. And here he had thought acupuncture and chiropractic treatments were a bunch of garbage!
He tipped the Soldier's head back, forcing his mouth open. The Medic grunted once, realizing that maybe the Heavy had a point. He really couldn't do much as far as surgery when speeding down the road. Sighing, he admitted his mistake. "Heavy, if you vould be so kind, could you pull over?"
The Heavy nodded. "One moment."
It took him a little time to find a good place to park their vehicle. They were several miles outside of the capital now, out on the edges of suburbs and once more into farmland. Farmers tended to get a little cranky if they found hooligans parking in their territory. That was when they didn't decide to open fire with an old sawed-off shotgun. The next best place would have been another gas station, but he didn't want to risk attracting the attention of passing troopers looking for their vehicle.
He found the best place he could stop. It was old, unattended, quiet for the evening. The Pyro seemed a little frightened but didn't make too many peeps. The Heavy pulled towards the back of the large field, hiding the vehicle from oncoming traffic. A few old trees and a massive headstone made for good camouflage. Assuming the dead weren't feeling restless tonight, hiding in a rural graveyard seemed to be their best bet for not attracting attention.
When the car finally went into park, the Medic reached up for the interior light. It cast a poor little cone. That was hardly enough to work with. He moved off the seats, then pulled the Soldier's head onto the armrest. Both the Heavy and the Pyro leaned over the unconscious man. The Medic pushed their heads back as he set about his job once more.
The Heavy was perplexed by the doctor's behavior. "What are you looking for?"
The Medic tipped the Soldier's head back again. He spoke as he started poking around the Soldier's open mouth. "Zhere vas somezhing in our heads, ja? Somezhing ve passed through our mouths. Now, zhis same object had limited control over our memories und zhoughts. Given its purpose und its small size, zhat would imply zhat zhis device has some proximity to zhe brain itself." He wiped spit off his hand, then continued poking around the soft palate in the back of the Soldier's throat. "Now, vhen I have had to do operations zhat required access to zhe center of zhe brain, I have always gone zhrough zhe back of zhe zhroat und up zhe sinuses. It is highly possible zhat zhe control device is lodged in zhe—"
He stopped as his fingers came across swollen tissue. It felt spongy and swollen, like the Soldier's tonsils were infected. Pulling his hand back, the Medic leaned closer to the Soldier's face. There was something inflamed towards the back of his throat. There was just the tiniest glimmer of metal beneath the swollen tissue. He could make out one tiny number—a seven.
"Zhere! See zhat?" the Medic asked.
Both the Pyro and the Heavy looked at the strange infection. The Pyro made a low sound of approval. The Heavy nodded in agreement. "Good find, Doctor. Now, how do you remove it?"
"Ve vill have to be very careful," the Medic said. He reached for the razor, then began pulling its blade out. He stopped, then looked at the Pyro. "You vill not vant to vatch zhis."
The Pyro gave a sad grunt, disappointed with the news. The Heavy pulled back from the Soldier's head, not wanting to block the Medic's view. The Medic whistled once, then prepared himself. Sure, it had been about a year since he performed surgery. He was going to hack into someone's soft tissue with little more than a piece of shrapnel. He could cut right into the Soldier's skull and brain. No big deal.
The Medic drew in a breath, then lowered the blade into the Soldier's throat. He put the furthest corner of the knife just beneath the metallic pearl. With a lift and a squeeze, it popped out of his throat. He was just barely able to pull the blade and the device out when muscles began contracting in the back of the Soldier's mouth. The Medic panicked, then flipped the Soldier onto his left side. The Pyro squealed as the Soldier vomited blood and bile into his seat.
The Medic screwed up his face. "Oh, dear."
Scrambling out of the car, the Pyro started brushing the Soldier's puke off his side. The Heavy sighed, then went to go fish towels out of the trunk. The Soldier gagged a few more times. He finally came to a stop as soon as he could breathe again. His gasps were wet, rattling. The Medic took a few napkins and patted the inside of his mouth, trying to mop up some of the damage he had done.
The Soldier gave a dirty glare to the man sitting on top of his body. He growled, then shoved the Medic back, sending birds fluttering aside in a panic. Squeezing the German's wrist, he forced the razor from his hands. He roared through his bloody mouth, "What the hell did you do to me?"
"S-Soldier," the Medic gasped for air. "L-let me go!"
An old, forgotten thought stirred in the confused brain of the Soldier. He lightened his grasp on the Medic's throat but did not release it. Soldier. That title seemed right. Why? That wasn't his name. He would have resolved the mental conflict faster had the Heavy not sprang into action. He grabbed onto both of the Soldier's wrists, then yanked them backwards. The Medic pulled himself up into the back seat, crouched on his toes.
He did not run. Running never convinced anyone that he wasn't a threat.
"Pumpkin," the Soldier finally said.
That was close enough. The Medic relaxed, then let his feet slide to the floor. "Ja. Herr Soldier? Do you remember me now?"
The Soldier's arms relaxed. When they lost tension, the Heavy let them go. He began mopping up the shotgun seat as the Pyro crept back to the car. He opened the back door to see what had happened. The doves let him take a seat. The Soldier was confused at the sight of the Pyro, but his brain resolved what he was seeing. It wasn't every day that one met a person as strange as the Pyro.
He pointed a thick finger at the Pyro's face. "Smokey Joe."
The Pyro responded with a thick grunt, then a nod.
The Soldier tipped his head back, knocking his forehead into the big belly of a familiar ally. "Commie."
Despite the Soldier's offensive tone, the Heavy chuckled. "Da. I am communist who makes five million dollars per year."
"Well, you do give a lot of it to your mother and to random children. That's pretty communist to me," the Soldier scowled.
With a little apprehension, the Medic tapped the Soldier on his chest. The bewildered American turned his attention back to the startled German. Regaining his carefree disposition, the Medic smiled. "I am sure you are very confused as to vhat you are doing here vizh us."
The Soldier bobbed his head to the right, then took a moment to process what was going on. "Is this where you tell me I've been dreaming all along, but you were there, and so was the Pinko and the flaming hippie? Where in the hell are we, anyway? Why's it so dark outside? What the—are those gravestones? What am I doing in this ugly uniform? Did I join Team Poopy Pants like the rest of you babies?"
He rubbed his mouth, then found himself asking one more question. "And why do I have razor burn?"
Author's Note
No time to rest. Must make another chapter. Must do the thing. Must do.