AN: I goofed up a while ago because I didn't realize TFC Soldier was still alive until he made that final appearance in comic #6. That being said, please note that he's already dead in this story. Just a heads up, there's some nice cringe-worthy gore and a bit of homophobia in this chapter because the plot called for it. As usual, if this bothers you, don't read it. Finally, I'm sorry for not updating for a while. Life really got out of control, but things should hopefully be better now.
Interrogation Room - Gray Gravel Co. Base, Badlands, New Mexico, USA. Thursday, April 5th, 1973.
"I'm sorry about the rude awakening; just following orders. Your friends are fine, though; they're just in other rooms," Fred explained, taking a seat across from Engineer at the table.
Engineer reclined in the collapsible plastic chair, arms folded across his chest. "I know."
"Alright, now that that's cleared up, why don't we chat for a bit? Tell me about that friend of yours in the asbestos suit," Fred said. "What's he like?" Despite the lack of threatening tone of his voice, the single, bare lightbulb hanging over them cast an unsettling shadow across his face.
"You mean Pyro? Well, Pyro's not a man. At least, I don't think so."
"Oh, sorry. What's she like?"
"Right, uh, none of us really know what Pyro is. Hell, sometimes I wonder if they're even human. No one knows. They're… neither, I guess." Engineer shrugged. "I don't really know what to call it. Anyway, they're real nice. They can be a little heavy-handed with the fire, but once you get past that, they're real nice. A bit of hot chocolate and some candy usually does the trick."
"I'm happy to hear that. Sounds like he-"
"They," Engineer corrected. "We call 'em 'they' because callin' them a man or a woman just don't seem right."
"Uh, 'they', seem like a nice… person."
He smiled. "That they are. They're okay, right?"
"We left, uh, 'them', alone. Still with your team."
"Thank God. Pyro can be kinda sensitive, you know?"
"Yeah, yeah, don't you worry. Anywho, it's been a while. How many degrees do you got now?"
"I haven't been back to school since the Gravel War began, but I'm up to 11 PhDs now."
The stout man smiled. "You must've worked hard for 'em."
"Sure did." Engineer chuckled. "Took me longer than you'd want to know. But let me tell you this: jugglin' school with a normal job ain't easy. I can't imagine doing a degree in the middle of a war."
"Still, you've got more than I ever will, so, you're going to have to be real kind and explain this to me simply. How does the life extender work? We both know that you know."
"Now why the hell do you think I'd go and tell you that?"
His face fell serious. "Come on, now, you know it's for the best. Just tell me what I need to know and we won't have any trouble."
"Sorry, partner, but no can do."
Fred clenched his fist. "You must be confused. This ain't a negotiation. You're going to tell me what I need to know whether you feel like it or not."
"Like I said: no can do."
He let out a frustrated groan. "I expected better from you, Dell."
"Dad, stop. You know I can't tell you. It's nothing personal."
"How much are they paying you?"
"Excuse me?"
"I know Mann Co. pays a lot. Whatever it is, I'll double it if you come join me. There's only four of us now, so it'd be nothing to split all that money between five of us. It'll be like old times, I promise." With a smile, he asked, "So, what d'you say?"
"Nope."
He crossed his arms. "So, you'd pick them over your old man?"
"Hate to break it to you, but I would. They're my friends and my co-workers. We're a team, and you understand what it's like to work with mercenaries. I can't just turn my back on them. Not for you, not for nobody."
"Hmm, very well. I was hopin' it wouldn't come to this; it's a real shame."
"Come to what?"
Fred yanked Engineer's arm forward, gripping the prosthetic tightly in his fat hands. Squeezing it near the base, he crushed the neurosensors, forcing some of them into his skin and evoking a bloodcurdling scream from his son. The robotic hand creaked and groaned as it flailed, moving in jerky movements without method. Without the tools available, he was helpless to end the pain.
"Boy, it's only goin' to get worse from here on out. You'd be best to tell me what I need to know."
From elsewhere in the base, a familiar, shrill scream could faintly be heard from within the cinderblock room he and his father were in.
"Oh God, Medic…"
Fred frowned and rushed out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Holding Room A - Gray Gravel Co. Base, Badlands, New Mexico, USA. Thursday, April 5th, 1973.
The steel door squeaked open, and in strolled a thin man with a red moustache. "Hello, ladies!" he said, shutting the door behind him. "I see you've made yourselves comfortable."
Miss Pauling shot him a murderous glare yet remained silent.
"Quiet today, aren't we? Yeah, no problem. I'll do the talking."
The woman with the short, black hair beside her sat with her legs pressed together, her hands clutching her kneecaps. She kept her head down and refrained from speaking. Miss Pauling had no idea who she was, let alone why she was there. Her cellmate looked exhausted, clearly not having slept since they had taken her. Mascara smudges ran down her cheeks.
"Hey, lady," their captor said, tapping her high-heeled foot with his boot. "Look at me when I'm talkin' to you."
She hesitated, yet obeyed.
"That's better. You know why you're here?"
She shook her head.
"For your son and your husband. They're not cooperating, so that's where you two come in."
"I don't understand. Who are you talking about?" Miss Pauling asked.
"You would know them as Scout and Spy." A smug grin spread across his lips. "What? They didn't introduce you two yet?"
"No…"
"I'll do the honours, then. This here is Catherine Bradley: the mother of that boyfriend of yours."
"Joel has a girlfriend?" Catherine asked, her strong Boston accent removing any inkling of doubt from her mind. Taking a closer look at her face, her nose looked a lot like Scout's; her jawline and cheekbones looked familiar as well.
"Um, yes. I'm Miss Pauling." Offering a sheepish smile, she said, "Nice to meet you. Sorry for the trouble."
She didn't respond, her mouth set into a frown. She folded her cuffed hands together, squeezed tightly in a poor attempt to hide the shaking. One of her manicured blue nails was broken and she had a bruise on her forearm in the shape of a hand.
"You have some explaining to do, don't you? I'll leave you ladies to chat. Sorry, we don't have any girly movies and cocktails for you to bond over." Opening the door, he paused and added, "If you need anything, call for me: the real Scout."
The door clicked shut, leaving Miss Pauling with the poor, confused housewife who had clearly never been held hostage before. She had to remind herself that most people didn't work jobs like hers; she couldn't expect the average person to know the best way to escape and bury the bodies after. They probably didn't have an abundance of corpse-grade quicklime lying around, either. Discussing murder was not the ideal form of introduction, of course, so she opted for something safer. "I didn't know Spy was married," she said out of the blue.
"Gaston? Yeah, we got married two years ago," Catherine said. "It was a small thing; just the two of us; I'm not surprised that he didn't talk about it."
"I take it Scout, uh, I mean Joel, doesn't know?"
"Not really. We figured it was best that we didn't go on troublin' him like that."
"Yeah…" Miss Pauling said slowly. "I know he doesn't exactly get along with Spy."
"They've never gotten along from what he tells me. It's a real shame; I know Gaston's had his regrets about leaving. That's why he went looking for me all those years later. I'm real glad he did." Catherine shook her head slowly. "Maybe one day the two of 'em will quit their bickerin' and get along for once. Anyway, tell me 'bout yourself. Ya seem like a nice girl."
Fidgeting with her cuffed hands, she said, "There's… not much to say. All I ever do is work."
"You work with my son at that 'gravel excavation company,' don't ya, hun?"
"Yes. I'm the administrative assistant. I manage the paperwork," Miss Pauling said carefully.
She cracked a knowing smile. "Sugar, I know more than you think. They don't tell me much, but I know my son and husband kill men for a living; my hands aren't exactly spotless, either. Tell me what you really do."
"I… didn't know you knew. Well, I'm kind of like their manager, I guess. It's kind of like being a secretary, only a bit bloodier. It can be kind of fun sometimes. Well, when you're not being held hostage, that is."
Catherine laughed. "Sounds exciting. More fun than ladies' night, that's for sure."
She rolled her eyes. "Big time. Hey, have you ever been to a gun show? Beats bar nights any time."
"Nope, never been," she said. "We should go together once we get out of this place; get to know the gal Joel's been dating."
Miss Pauling smiled warmly. "Sounds great."
Holding Room B - Gray Gravel Co. Base, Badlands, New Mexico, USA. Thursday, April 5th, 1973.
"Son, you should know from last time that this wardog is ready for anything you'll try. No pain will make me surrender. I am a vault!"
Classic Sniper rolled his eyes. "We're not even torturing you. You don't have anything useful to tell us."
"What?" Soldier barked, sitting up straight. "You're not?"
"You act as though you want to be tortured."
A giddy excitement overtook his features. "I've always wanted to know something worth being tortured for. I'd sooner hold in my guts and scream at the sky than tell you maggots anything more than name and rank!"
"You want to be tortured so badly? Hmm, very well." Classic Sniper left the room for a few minutes, returning with a toolbox. Taking out a pair of pliers, he set the box down and yanked one of Soldier's hands forward. Isolating his index finger, he wedged the pliers under his nail. "Tell me, what is the Administrator planning with this Australium?"
He winced, yet retained his composure for the most part. "The old ripping out the nails method. A classic." Not satisfied with his lack of fear, Classic Sniper pulled back slowly, wiggling the pliers from side to side. Soldier hollered as his nail came loose, eventually being pulled off.
Classic Sniper held up the bloody piece. "Nice nailbeds," he said dryly, discarding it without care.
"You think I care about sissy nails, private? Negatory!"
"I guess you won't mind if I remove another, then." Moving on to the middle finger, he repeated the procedure. Soldier continued to scream, yet he refused to offer an answer to the question. He managed to remove all of his finger nails yet the man still hadn't crumbled.
"Hmm, you seem to have learned from last time, Mr. Doe." Classic Sniper returned his instrument to its rightful place, pulling out the worst thing imaginable. "That, or Bea was just better at this than me."
"No!" Soldier cried, "Anything but that!"
He shot him a confused look. "It's just a bucket…"
"My weakness!"
Classic Sniper sighed, taking out a bottle of lemon juice. "This," he said, holding it up for him to see, "is what you should be afraid of." After squirting its contents into the metal pail, he dunked Soldier's mangled hands into it, causing him to lock his jaw with a grunt.
"It's only going to get worse from here on out unless you answer my question," Virgil said, holding his victim's wrists tightly to ensure he wouldn't attempt to put an end to his agony.
Through gritted teeth, Soldier said, "Do your worst, Sergeant Numbnuts."
The Lab - Gray Gravel Co. Base, Badlands, New Mexico, USA. Thursday, April 5th, 1973.
Sitting at the desk, he scribbled on a scrap of paper in his near-illegible handwriting. The navy ink rolled off the ballpoint smoothly with each stroke, lulling him into a trance of sorts as he got lost in watching the words appear on the page. Medic had always had the blue and silver pen tucked in the front pocket of his lab coat or on his nightstand beside his glasses. Heavy had asked him about it once, to which he'd simply said it was nice to write with. It was only partially true; while it was aesthetically pleasing and never ran out of ink, it was first and foremost his personal badge of honour for having literally been to Hell and back. More accurately, he swiped it from Satan's desk when he signed the contract for his soul about twenty years ago. Sure, losing his own soul was less than ideal, yet the tradeoff of being able to communicate with birds, keep them alive for as long as he liked, and a getting a nice pen out of it made it worth the minor loss. Since then, he had obtained another eight souls from Team Classic without their knowledge, so it all worked out in the end.
Writing down his thoughts also helped to distract him from the lab. Usually, Medic loved being in the tiled, somewhat-sterile room, surrounded by medical equipment and an abundance of illegally-obtained exotic animal organs waiting to be used. Yet, if there was a lab he could say he hated, aside from some of the ones he used to work in as a young man, it had to be this one. Implanting baboon uteruses in the team and taking their souls was fun, but being somewhere where his brilliance was treated as a liability cast a shadow over it all. For once, he wasn't the one in charge and his opinions didn't matter. What Classic Heavy said was the only thing that meant anything.
"… The idiot can't recognize true genius even if it were to smack him in the face. Now that I think about it, that's not a bad idea. A little homicide never hurt anyone. I wish Heavy were here to see me gut him like the pig he is. At least Archimedes is here to watch. I'm sure he'd love to make nest out of his intestines…"
Speaking of the devil, he entered the lab. Not literally Satan, of course; he was much bigger. It was Classic Heavy. "And what the hell are you wasting time on, Frankenstein?" He peered over his shoulder, letting out a chuckle as he saw the sloppy writing on the scrap. "Aw, the princess is writing in her diary. Isn't that just precious?"
Medic snorted, clicking the pen shut and slipping it back into his jacket pocket and tucking the paper in with it. "What do you want?"
"Came to check on you, see how you were settlin' in." With a sneer, he added, "Place wasn't the same without you, Doc."
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, I couldn't wait to come back. You must have missed me so much."
"Oh yeah, missed you a whole lot. Enough of this shit, though." Classic Heavy crossed his arms. "You weren't doing your job when you brought that bastard back to life, so now it's time you paid up."
Medic hurried out of his seat, preparing for the worst. Turning to face his captor, shoulders tense and hands balled, he glared daggers at him. "I owe you nothing," he spat.
"You're mistaken. We hired your sorry ass to kill them." Lowering his voice, he said, "You said you wanted to test your new creation but, instead, you went behind our backs and brought that fucker back to life."
"I don't work for you anymore."
"Your contract says otherwise and it's too late to go back now, sweetheart. You made your choice long ago." A bloodthirsty grin spread across his lips. "You know what happens to traitors around here?"
Medic instinctively reached for his bonesaw, only to grasp at air. A flash of panic came over him and, while he hoped it wasn't too noticeable on his face, clearly Classic Heavy saw it.
"Scared?" Classic Heavy snorted. "God, you're even more pathetic than I thought. You're helpless without that fat bastard you call a Heavy protectin' your fragile body."
"When he comes, you'll feel the schadenfreude from both of us."
"You think we're going to let him live after what you did?" Grabbing hold of Medic's shirt collar, he said, "After your friends killed our men, I think it's about time you got a taste of your own medicine."
He furrowed his brow. "You leave him alone!"
"Why should you care about him?" Classic Heavy chided. "You sold them out."
"Well, unlike you, my Heavy isn't a stupid brute."
A fist connected with Medic's face, sending his glasses tumbling to the ground. "Shut the hell up and learn your place!" Releasing him, the man stumbled back, catching himself on the desk.
The side of his face grew hot as blood rushed out of the broken capillaries under the surface of his skin. He shot him a venomous glare, spitting blood as the taste of iron filled his mouth. Medic wiped it away with his white sleeve, laughing darkly. "Oh, I know my place, but I think you're the one who should be afraid of me, schweinhund."
Classic Heavy dug his heel into Medic's foot, causing the man to let out a cry that he failed to keep quiet despite his best efforts. "You've got quite the mouth on you. Let's see what kind of sounds it can make." Planting his hands on his shoulders, he brought his knee up and forced the man's torso into it, knocking the wind out of him. Doubling over, Medic let out a wheeze and gripped the desk tightly, wishing his only path of escape wasn't blocked by the very thing he was trying to slip away from.
"Where's your Heavy now, Doc?" Medic gasped for air, arms shielding his stomach from another blow. He looked up at his blurry enemy, eyes wide and feeling unusually helpless. He could make out Classic Heavy's sadistic grin as he drew his fist back to strike again. Medic held up an open hand, as if begging for mercy.
"Too late for that now," he said, twisting the hand and sending the injured man head-first to the tiled floor. Medic let out a pained groan, trying to yank himself free until Classic Heavy pinned him down with a foot on his chest. "Thought you could get away? Think again, bitch!"
Caught, Medic stared up at the enemy mercenary, all of his confidence in his abilities having left him. He swallowed hard and remained still.
"What's this?"
Classic Heavy bent down, causing Medic to wince from the extra pressure on his chest. Looking over, he saw the man pick up a folded piece of paper. When he looked at it, he curled his lip in disgust. "Well, isn't that lovely."
"What?"
"You're a faggot."
"What? Nein."
"Yeah? Explain this, then." Holding the picture only a few inches from his nose, Medic could somewhat make out the image before him. It was the team photo taken only a few weeks before. Sniper, Engie, Pyro, Scout, and Demo sat with their feet hanging off of the balcony they were sitting on, smiling at the camera, relaxed. Spy stood behind Demo, glaring at the camera with his arms crossed. He looked out of place beside Miss Pauling who was smiling at the camera with her clipboard clutched to her chest. Soldier saluted the camera with a grin beside Zhanna. Heavy was next to her with an arm around her shoulders and Medic was holding Heavy's other arm with a pleasant smile on his lips.
His heart sank. "We're good friends."
"Bullshit. Straight men don't hold a man's arm like a goddamn trophy wife." Shoving the photo in his face, he yelled, "What does this look like?"
Medic didn't speak.
"Answer me!"
He was still silent.
Classic Heavy lifted his foot, allowing Medic to take a deep breath. Then, as he was about to get up, a foot came down on his knee, causing him to involuntarily shriek. He recognized the sharp pain as a fracture — a shattered knee cap; he knew he wasn't going to be going anywhere any time soon.
"Have I motivated you to do your job yet?"
He gritted his teeth, tears involuntarily welling in his eyes as his nerves fired on all cylinders.
As Classic Heavy was about strike again, the doors to the lab were thrown open, banging against the walls from the force. "What in tarnation is goin' on in here?"
Medic looked over, seeing a stout man yet he couldn't see well enough to know who it was.
"Fred? What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be with-"
"My son, I know. What are you doing to the guy?"
"None of your business." Fred shoved his teammate out of the way. "Good Lord!"
Medic tried to scramble away, failing to do so with any real effectiveness.
"Hey, hey, I'm not gonna hurt you, boy." He picked up the doctor's glasses and set them back on his face. "There. That should be a bit better now."
"Danke…"
Fred helped Medic to his feet, offering support. "You've been through enough for now." Shooting a disapproving look at Classic Heavy, he escorted Medic out of the room, half dragging him. Once they were outside, he said, "Look, I normally wouldn't get involved like that, but I know he wouldn't have stopped with you. Consider it a favour because you're one of Dell's friends."
AN: The picture Medic had in his pocket is the cover image for this fic that I made in SFM. The picture can also be found on my Tumblr. I'd include a link but FFN won't let me.