Author's Note: Hey guys! Been a hot minute since I've written any fan fictions, and I've decided to do one on my recent obsession: Team Fortress 2! So first to note that there will be things in this story that are not canon, that may go against canon, etc etc. In other words, some parts of this story will not be lore friendly. Pretty much I've made my own adjustments to the lore for the story. No idea how often I'll update, but I will as often as I can since I am currently working a full-time job as well as writing a novel outside of writing fan fictions for fun. Parts of this are roughly based off the Fortress Films movie "Emesis Blue" which I highly recommend watching if you haven't. It's on Youtube so it's free to watch. It takes a more serious approach to the otherwise wacky and goofy world of TF2. But without further ado, please enjoy and let me know what y'all think as feedback is a big motivator for me.
Disclaimer: I own no rights to Team Fortress 2 or Valve. I make no monetary compensation for these stories.
"With all do respect Ms. Pauling, but a rescue mission? A bloody rescue mission? We're mercenaries, assassins, we ain't exactly in the business of rescuin' damsels in distress."
The misfit band of mercenaries sat around a table in their "meeting room" as Ms. Pauling had called it. A place to put their heads together and plan out events for jobs. While the team wasn't pleased with the aspect of having to rescue someone instead of killing, it had been Mr. Mick Mundy that had spoken up, probably the most quiet of the nine of them. He was the sniper of the team. The one that perched up high somewhere and took out targets with precise headshots. Most of the time.
"I know you guys don't like the idea of rescues. But this girl is important. Her father is an important figure and is paying a lot for this. I'm counting on you all."
"How much is a lot?" asked Emeric, the team spy, while lighting up a cigarette. His third one since the start of the meeting.
"Sixty thousand dollars. Each."
"'Each'? As in sixty for all nine of us?" asked Mick.
"Yes, each."
"Bloody hell, Sheila, why didn't you lead with that? What the hell are we waiting for?"
"Mrmph mmmrph mmph!" came a response from the pyro. No one knew his name, and if any of them even cared to know, if he had one at all, his refusal to remove his respirator made him nearly impossible to understand.
"Right…," started Ms. Pauling, casting a glance at Pyro, "Anyway, Mr. Conagher, Mr. Mundy, I'm placing you two in charge of this one."
"Us?" Mr. Dell Conagher, the engineer of the team, and Mick both questioned in unison, sharing concerned glances.
"Mate, I think I'll 'ave one of them cigs." Mundy held a hand to Emeric who just scoffed at him.
"Get your own."
"Bloody hell you're an ass."
"Gentlemen! Focus," Pauling said in frustration, "Yes, you two will be farthest from the action. Except for you Mr. Ludwig, I just don't trust you enough to not lead them all to their deaths. No offense."
Fritz Ludwig, the medic, just smiled and with a heavy German accent said, "No offense taken, I wouldn't trust myself either."
"But, Ms. Pauling, if I may, you've never put us both in charge, especially Mr. Mundy. No offense, partner." said Dell, his Texan accent coming out in thick draws.
"Offense taken. Mate."
"Guys, please get along just this once. This may be the most important mission that any of you have ever done. I'm counting on you guys. All of you. You need to work together on this." Ms. Pauling spoke softly, hoping to get into the thick skulls of her dimwitted underlings.
"You can count on us, Ms. Pauling! Especially me, I mean look at these bad boys!"proclaimed the scout, Jeremy, who unabashedly flexed his unimpressive biceps. Miss Pauling rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses.
"I have the location where the kidnappers are holding the girl. Her name is Sage Dallamoore. They're holding her on a ranch on the outskirts of El Paso."
"Texas? Hell yeah, boys, I'm going home." exclaimed Dell.
"El Paso is a long way from Bee Cave, Mr. Conagher."
"Hell, Texas is Texas. El Paso is just a little rockier and less flat."
"Gentlemen, get your things together. You leave first thing in the morning."
"You're a bloody menace, mate. Goin' 'round shooting everyone. You're a crazed gunman." said the voice on the other end of the phone. Jonathan Mundy, Mick's dad, wasn't crazy for his son's choice of profession. While his wife, bless her sweet heart, was optimistic, claiming Mick only killed those that deserved it, Johnathan knew better. His son just liked killing people. From jealous husbands wanting revenge on their cheating wives to crime bosses wanting to make examples out of rivals. Mick did it all, and he enjoyed every minute of it, working alone or with those mercenaries, it made no difference.
"I'm not a crazed gunman, Dad, I'm an assassin." Mick said matter-of-factly.
"What's the bloody difference?"
'What'd the difference be? One's a job and the other is a mental sickness." Mick loved his parents, both of them, dearly. He really did, but sometimes his dad really got under his skin. He knew he was concerned, as a father should be, but bloody hell did it annoy him. Could they not have one conversation without him insulting his very livelihood?
"Bloody hell, boy, you're sick in the head. One of these days you're gonna shoot the wrong person, Michael."
"I'm a professional, Dad. You and Mum should be happy I'm sending you money."
"I've told you already, boy, we don't want your damned blood money."
"Dad-"
"And another thing, lad, I don't want you coming 'round 'ere with another injury like ya did last time. You're mother 'bout had a heart attack she was so worried!"
"Dad I- Just- just put Mum on the phone." Mick leaned against the payphone, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his aviator sunglasses. His father scoffed. There was some scuffling and inaudible mumbling until a chirpy female voice came over.
"Micky me boy! Hope your dad didn't give you too much trouble. He's been awfully stressed with the factory job 'n all. How's me boy doin,?"
"I'm all right, Mum. Just thought I'd check in and see how everything's going back home. Gonna be heading off tomorrow, got a job in El Paso of all places."
"Oh, where's that dearie?"
"Texas, Mum. Still in the U.S."
"Oh, well, be safe. I hear those Texans are mighty wild."
"Can't be more wild than me, eh, Mum?" he glanced at his wrist watch. "Crikey, sorry Mum, phone's gonna cut me off soon. I used me only nickel to call ya. I'll call ya when I get back, all right?"
"Of course, Micky, be safe darling."
"Course I will, Mum. Love ya"
"Love you too dearie."
"And I still love you, Dad." There was a grumbled "Yeah, yeah, love you too. Oh look, the hinges need oilin'" Mick smiled smartly to himself, hanging up. His dad had never been the affectionate type, but Mick knew how to get him to soften up. He gathered up himself, sauntered off to his truck, and made the drive back to base. He would have called from the phone at the base, but he didn't trust it. Mick was a tad paranoid, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He felt safer using a payphone, something that wouldn't be likely to be tracked. Could be worse. He could be Emeric.
Emeric sat alone in his private smoking room. Away from everyone, he was at peace. His balaclava sat at his side on the side table by his favorite chair next to a glass of scotch on ice. With a cigarette in his mouth and a good book in his lap, what more could he want? In there he was alone, away from the judgmental eyes of his peers. "Peers" isn't a word he would use for those insolent idiots. They were all beneath him, amateurs. That's why he wore the mask, even around them. No one could see his face or else it could be used against him. Paranoia? Most likely, but to Emeric, it was logic. But in his smoking room, he was safe, he was secure. That is until someone knocks at the door, disturbing his peace.
"What is it?" he snapped irritably, snatching up his balaclava. He smoothed back his graying hair and slipped it on just as the door cracked open.
"Medic wants to see you, Spy." It was Mr. Jane Doe. Yes, Jane Doe. Is that his real name? Only he knows, though most likely not. It's likely to be a fake name, and with Mr. Doe not being so bright, Jane Doe is what he chose.
"The crazy German doctor sends a moron to fetch me?" Emeric said with every intention of insult. Though Doe didn't seem to care.
"Yes, sir." he stated simply and with a mocking French salut as a farewell, the soldier-wannabe marched off. Emeric groaned in annoyance and snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray and headed off to Ludwig's lab.
"You know somethin', Doc? I'm startin' ta think ya don't know what yer doin' half ta time." said the clearly drunk, as always, Tavish DeGroot, the demolitions "expert", expert being a word that gets thrown around very very lightly.
"Oh, you think that, ja?" said the medic in response.
"Yeah, I mean, if ya were really good at what ya do, couldn't ya grow me eye back?" he gestured to the eyepatch over the left side of his face, his words slurring together.
"We've already been through this, Demoman. Now, you're good to go, fit as a whistle. Mostly. I'm amazed your liver is still functioning." he shooed Tavish away without a second glance, turning his attention to some papers.. The Scotsman grumbled and hopped down from the examination table and exited the lab, Emeric entering right after him.
"This better be important, Fritz."
"You need a checkup, my friend. Pauling demands it before the mission." Ludwig said as he stood up right, one hand placed behind his back and the other gesticulating as he spoke.
"A checkup? Do I look like a child?"
"You look like you got the Lone Ranger confused with a bank robber."
"Excuse me?"
"Come, my friend. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to whatever nonsense you were up to. Perhaps ogling over pictures of Scout's mutter." A mischievous smile spread across his face, but Emeric was in no mood for this sociopath's games.
"Just hurry," he said through gritted teeth. Ludwig chuckled and got to work, going through the same process he had with the other mercenaries.