The Spy strode through the respawn room's entrance to the hollering of her teammates.
"There's our wee miss now!" The Demoman shouted, pointing to the woman. "I was just tellin' some of the lads here how yae selflessly went into BLU territory alone and kept that Sniper off our backs."
"Way to go, Hotlegs! I can't believe we won for once!" The Scout cheered, saddling up to her and grinning boyishly.
"Aye! And for that, we owe the lassie a drink, eh lad?" The Scotsman motioned to the young man.
Throughout the room, the men continued their celebration at their victory with a series of hoots and shouts, and with lightning speed, their gear was thrown to their lockers.
The men restlessly began to file out. The Spy focused her full attention upon her locker, mostly in distain. Somehow, every single object within was askew and not just slightly, but horrendously disheveled. Flaring her nostrils, the woman's various compulsions demanded organization. She spent some time readjusting the contents into proper angles. Fully engrossed with her work, the tap on her shoulder nearly made her jump. The Spy turned to the source, but it was this time her eyes widened.
It was a dead man; the Heavy.
She went completely blank for a moment in sheer shock. Then, remembering the respawn system that she'd heard about during contractual negotiations, the Spy gathered herself into indifference, at least outwardly. Her insides squirmed. She had seen his half of his head explode mere hours ago, but here he was, head repaired and very much alive.
The Russian towered over her not unlike a massive grizzly firmly on its hind legs.
"You and used Heavy like meat-shield, very shrewd, but I like how you think," He gazed down from his lofty 6' 9'' to her 5' 10''. "You gave Heavy a second chance so I will owe you, da?" He said in his resonate baritone.
"Spasibo," she said, still not fully at ease.
"Ah, Spy speaks Russian? It is nice to be hearing my language," The large man smiled. "I should not be keeping you so I must go; the alcohol will not drink itself." He said before he plodded off.
The Spy and the Demoman were the only ones left in the respawn room. Joyous banter bubbled through the echoing halls, becoming softer with each passing second.
"I had no idea yae knew Russian," He voiced as he removed his demolitions vest and placed it on a hook within his locker. "Are yae coming to the pub later? The whole team goes to the bar on Friday night."
"It's late—"
"Spy, yae have to, the boys are expectin' yae!"
She wasn't in the "drinking mood," at least with other people, but she decided it would be wisest not to let her teammates down. The Spy needed amiable teammates since they'd be easier to—
Manipulate was the first word that had come to her mind, but that was such an ugly word for it all. Cooperate. Cooperate was more seemly.
"I will go, but only because you would be so heartbroken if I refused. I will require time to clean up," The Spy glowered at her dirtied suit. "I believe I am covered in more blood than what is socially acceptable."
"Yae look fine. Me and the lads won't care."
"It isn't them I am concerned for."
"Yae mean the townsfolk? They've have seen some, uh…peculiar things come out of our base. Like me for example," He said, jesting at himself. "But there was that time Medic got really drunk and ran through the streets with just his glasses and bone saw; then he lit the diner on fire because the waitress wouldn't tell him he was pretty," Demo chuckled, recalling the event. "The diner manager still won't let him within fifty feet of the place."
"I'd love to hear more about that debacle over a few drinks."
"I'd love to tell yae over a few drinks. We'll leave in an hour; I'll meet yae at yer room."
The Spy set the rest of her gear into the locker, and left with her butterfly knife stashed in its usual pocket. On her way out, the woman took some bandages, antiseptic, and a few rags from the medicine cabinet.
As she strode away through the base to her room, the mysterious, yet surprisingly numerous cleaning staff had appeared seemingly from nowhere and were going about their various duties. The Spy approached her room and found a note and key taped to her door. Pulling the paper away with her hand, she read it.
"Here's your room key. This is the only one, so be sure not to lose it," -Pauling
What a boldfaced lie… The Spy thought, pocketing the key. There was no way there was only one key; her employers would no doubt have a spare used for snooping. Her regular paranoia could have just been making its voice heard, but she knew that they would need to keep tabs on her somehow. Instilling a false sense of privacy in the form of a "one-of-a-kind" key…did her bosses think she was stupid? If they'd like to pry, then they'd have to try harder. A new lock would easily fix the problem. Perhaps she could purchase an identical one in town during the weekend.
The Spy entered her room and grabbed a clean balaclava from her metal cabinet, and then made her way to the ladies restroom. She chose a nearby sink and stumbled over to it. Steadying herself with each hand on either side of the basin, the Spy saw her usual masked visage, and as usual she dreaded what lay beneath.
She peeled off her grimy mask, sticky with blood partially scabbed over. The second skin fell to the ground with a disgusting plop, much like a soaking towel. The odor that desperately clung to the fabric caused not only her expression to crinkle, but her entire body to reel back in violated repulsion.
The woman turned herself to the mirror and saw her reflection. Tired, sullen eyes lay within their bruised sockets like glistening stones in sooty craters, and her blonde hair sat that odd angles, reminding her of Warhol. Devoid of moisture, her cracked lips pouted in their typical frown. Sweaty, coagulated muck caked across her face like yet another mask, and the artificial lighting of the room gave the small patches of clean skin a sallow, sickly hue. She looked terrible.
Glaring at the rusty splotches on her collar, the woman's eyes narrowed: another ruined shirt. She hissed a jumble of profanities under her breath, mostly directed at that Sniper.
Twisting the hot water handle, the faucet sputtered angrily. The Spy moistened one of the rags and dabbed gingerly at the cut. As the woman expected, the slice across her forehead, which at the time seemed tremendous, was in fact roughly an inch in length and thin as a hair. Superficial and short, the gash was unlikely to scar too noticeably.
In some time, she had wiped the rest of the scum away; her cream-colored skin shone through. The Spy applied antiseptic to her injury, and bandaged it carefully.
She stared into the mirror, blankly this time. The face that glared back snapped her back to the moment. The sharp architecture of that face, almost feline in quality, was still jarring. The woman exhaled a sigh that could have belonged to someone far older. She pulled over the fabric veil, and the Spy was herself again.
…
From the outside, The Teufort Tavern, looked to be a dive. The woman was right considering the interior wasn't much better; the furnishings were dilapidated and filled with toothless, old men.
Appearances are minute for a bar. It didn't take long for most of the barflies to be beyond all caring. After two shots, everything and everyone would start to look much more pleasing to the eye, cleaner at least. Another set of shots could turn the place into a swanky Vegas cigar lounge brimming with gorgeous show girls. Any more would just make everything a blur.
The lighting was a dim, amber glow from dusty, glass fixtures. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke blanketed the room like dense fog over a lake. There was a scratched up pool table with a threadbare basin in the middle of the bar room that a few teenagers were playing with. In the back corner of the tavern, from a battered jukebox, came the soft strum of guitar and the velvety croon of Johnny Cash. The clang of glasses, the snap of billiards, murmuring chatter from customers, and the rustling of movement filled the room as the RED team conversed.
The RED team spread themselves in clusters throughout the pub. The Heavy and the Medic spoke with one another over mugs of beer. The Scout anchored himself to the corner of the bar and was gazing longingly at the busty female barkeep. The Spy and the Demoman perched aside each other in wooden stools with far less cushioning than what would be desired.
"Are yae enjoyin' yer drink?"
"It tastes like rubbing alcohol," her face curled after her most recent sip of the local brew. "But it does the trick."
"I'll take it yer a wine drinker?" The man asked, cocking his head slightly.
"Yes, mostly," The Spy sighed, setting her empty glass with the other four she'd guzzled earlier. "What I would give for a Merlot. Tell me, you are a scotch man?"
"Aye, Ol' Scrumpy is me brand. Gets me drunk as a skunk by 2 PM." The Demoman downed his drink, and placing it among his own empty glass pile.
"You're a very functional drunk," Thought the Demoman had been drinking all day, he was still somehow able to form his words into logical sentences. Needless to say, the Spy was a bit impressed. "Navigating while inebriated, much less aiming a weapon in battle is no small feat."
"Thank yae, I've had years of practice. Speakin' of battle, yae do remarkably under pressure. I was shocked yae were willin' to tangle with the BLU Sniper. "
"With that amateur? He's a fair shot at best." The Spy stated in her cavalier manner.
"Really, now?" The Demoman peered over at the woman. "He nearly killed yae."
"Nearly."
The Scotsman sighed heartily. "That bloody camper is the reason we haven't been winnin' matches yae know," The Demoman started. "The BLU team must have been relyin' on him to stop us. They weren't expectin' me at all." He laughed aloud reminiscing about earlier. "They all seemed so offended that I barged in on their sewin' circle," He paused for dramatic effect. "A couple grenades fixed that, but seriously though, I have a feelin' that if yae can keep their Sniper occupied again, we can win the next match," The Demo explained as he ordered another drink. "More matches won means more on payday."
"Excellent," she said with a devilish edge. "I have unfinished business with him."
"Is that because he 'redecorated' yer suit?" The Demoman asked.
The Spy didn't say anything, but the slight scowl behind her mask was enough.
"It's alright, lassie. Yae'll show that campy weasel next time." He slapped the Spy on the back as the barwoman set another glass of tawny liquid before him. He thanked her and said "The old Spy would become cross if his suit got stained too."
"I have been wondering about that. He disappeared," The Spy said as she placed both her elbows on the bar's scratched counter. "Do you know what occurred?"
"It's hard to say. I was never friends with the man; nobody really was. He always kept to himself in stuck-up sort of way," The man related. "One day he just stopped showin' up for work."
"You don't suppose why?"
"I've heard some things through the grapevine and even from someone reliable. I was told that right before he just vanished, our old Spy was getting very 'friendly' with the Scout's mum."
The woman glanced over to the young Bostonian, who was still utterly enthralled with the bartender. "Our Scout?"
The Demo put his glass down and nodded. "Yeah," he kept his voice low. "Somethin' like that would tear the team apart; I mean, yae don't just do the old in an' out with yer teammate's mum. That just isn't right."
"Did the boy find out?" The woman asked, intrigued with the entire situation.
"He did, but it was after the Spy disappeared. The lad was irate, shoutin' vulgarities I've never even heard of. Bloody hell, it was enough to make even me blush." Adjusting his seating and leaning forward, the Demoman continued. "The Spy should have known better. I think there was even somethin' about that in the agreement we all had to sign when we joined, but I can't remember all the specifics."
"Do you have any idea where my predecessor could be now?"
The Scotsman shrugged his shoulders. "Violatin' the contract in respect to friendships is…severe," the man's tone seemed to shift as he uttered the final word. His right hand was firmly about his scotch, and his other was balled into a fist. "I don't know if it's more so with relationships."
An uneasy lull fell between the pair.
"To be honest with you lassie, it wouldn't surprise me if the old Spy suffered some kind of untimely accident, if you catch my meanin'."
Something was missing…The agreement actually referred to only members of the opposite team and their immediate families, not fellow teammates. It would make sense to dismiss the previous Spy given what he'd done, as most would be unhappy to learn that their mother was being bedded by a coworker, but there wasn't anything explicitly against it in the contract; TF Industries was not known for upstanding morals as well. They wouldn't waste time on something like that, unless if there were more at stake…
"Spy, yae look like yer passin' a kidney stone," The Demoman teased, both returning to his light-hearted self and bringing the Spy out from her ponderings.
The woman blinked a few times, and peered over at him quizzically.
"Uhh, bartender, another round please!" He gave a wave to the barkeep.
For the next few hours, the Spy and the Demoman chatted feverishly about alcohol again. When it had reached the early hours of the morning, the two returned to the base. Staggering would be more accurate, but even amid the stupor, the fate of her predecessor hovered over her just as the Sniper had before.