With a confident gait, the Spy strode down the hall to the spawn room. She was masked and suited in her tailored burgundy with cardinal-red knotted about her neck. In an elaborate gesture, the woman seated a pair of sunglasses upon the bridge of her straight nose; fatigued eyes blinked behind the façade. She fully poised herself.
The gentle hum of speech whispered from the room. It wasn't the kind of socializing from the night before. It was significantly quieter now, tense and anticipating, aside from a boisterous outlier she immediately recognized as the Scout, but that seemed fitting.
The woman strut with nonchalant calculation; arms swaying boldly at her side, the Spy slipped a cigarette between her lips. She was not expecting to go unnoticed; she was in fact counting on it. Like in any profession, mercenary work especially, first impressions are everything.
Her display was hardly overlooked by the sundry group of men. The Spy received several glances, and a particularly longing one from the Scout. With her dues sated, she smirked; she, of course, deserved every bit of the awe she inspired.
The spawn room itself resembled just about every other room in the base, but there were rows of open, wooden storage compartments for personal use, a weapon and ammunition case, and a medical cabinet. There was a large, steel, rising-door at the far wall; this door, she assumed, would lead to the arena. Fluorescent lighting pooled from the ceiling, and it glistened luridly off the spotless, tiled floor. The room smelt like a pungent mix of cleaning solution and sweat.
The Demoman waved to her in greeting. "Good to see yer full of piss and vinegar today," He motioned for her to join him. "Yer locker is right next to mine, and so far away from Scout's." Looking up from fastening his boot, the Demoman gave the Scout, whose locker was at the far side, a smug grin.
The Bostonian's middle finger shot up in response.
Chuckling heartily, the Demoman said "Good to see yer full of piss and vinegar too, boy."
A bear of a man then lumbered in, messaging his temples. He grumbled deeply and staggered over to his belongings.
"I'll take it you won your little bet then?" The woman commented as she lit her smoke and peered up at him. The Demoman's triumph was easy to read.
"Chubby won't be so cocksure now." With the self-satisfied expression still painted across his face, the Demoman looked over to the Heavy who was sluggishly trying to put on his gear. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, the Heavy grunted a string of Russian vulgarities under his breath. The Demoman returned his attention to the Spy and inquired, "So, how'd yae sleep?"
"Fantastically," she said with her dry tone. The cigarette hung loosely from her equally dry lips as she spoke. "I found the shouting fit about hippies last night to be particularly relaxing."
"Yae'd best get used to that; Soldier does it every morning," He continued. Demoman bobbed his head in the direction of a burly, helmeted man who was picking his nose feverishly in the corner. The Spy turned to gaze over at the American. Moments later, he noticed his observer. His helmet bounced with acknowledgment toward her, and he gave an awkward, toothy smile, like a young child's first yearbook photo.
"Hello fellow American teammate!" He shot with roaring, patriotic zeal. His gruff voice rang hard against the concrete walls. "Would you like to see my heads?"
"Buy me dinner first."
Demoman and several others burst into laughter at the quip; a split second after the reply of his teammates, Scout chortled noticeably louder and more forced than everyone else.
An announcement was broadcast over the intercom. "Mission begins in five minutes," It was the voice of a woman. There was a certain sharpness to it; the kind of slicing quality that could make a clean cut through marble. Spy supposed it had to be the "boss lady" Pauling mentioned earlier during orientation.
After the men had settled down, Spy finished her smoke, and was looking around for an ashtray. Demoman, very courteously, pulled one from a locker and offered it to her; he made an exaggerated, chivalrous gesture with his arm, as though he were some medieval lord. She nodded to him graciously and snuffed away the embers.
She peered at her locker's sparse contents; she wasn't too surprised at the lack of anything really useful. Considering most of her new employer's funds likely went to fund billboards and the hat production lines, it was logical for her to assume Mann Co. would cut a few corners.
There was, at least, a long barreled revolver provided; of that. At least she could be certain of a weapon, but not of its accuracy. The firearm was accompanied by a complimentary invis-watch, a few sappers, a disguise kit, and a serrated, standard-issue knife: bare-bones essentials. She was far from content, but the provided equipment would be…adequate. In truth, the Spy felt lucky to have even that; she was half expecting that she'd be given a plastic spoon and a bag of rocks to use against the opposing team.
"Unless if yae plan on killing the BLUs with sarcasm, I'd get yer load-out together," The Scotsman told the woman as he readied his position. "And remember to stay close," He affirmed as the Spy compiled the rest of her equipment on her person. She quickly fastened an invis-watch to her wrist and loaded the long-barreled revolver.
She didn't dare take the glorified kitchenware provided. Fingers creeping into her pocket, her tips grazed the handle of her butterfly knife, and the engraving of the tiny Cross of Lorraine brushed against her index. The Spy's shoulders relaxed momentarily.
The cold, metal door to the arena finally rose with an uproar of tinny protest. The intercom announced intensely "Let the games begin."