Since yesterday, Scout couldn't stop thinking about what he had seen. There's no way a doll that small could move like that. Or look at him like that. Right? He groaned, dragging a hand down his face as the thought looped again in his mind.
A yellow-and-red soda can fizzed faintly in his other hand as he tilted it back for another sip. "BONK! Atomic Punch," the label read in bold red letters, with "Cherry Fission" stamped underneath. The fizzy kick did little to settle his nerves.
Scout stared at the can, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table. Maybe it was just my imagination. Yeah, that's gotta be it. But… dolls don't run. And they sure as hell don't look at you like that. His stomach churned at the memory, and he shook his head as if to knock the thought loose. "C'mon, brain, give it a rest already," he muttered, tossing the empty can onto the table with a loud clink.
The Soldier stormed into the kitchen, his boots pounding against the floor as he made a beeline for the bread box. Scout, slouched at the table with an empty can of BONK!, watched him with mild curiosity, his mind still racing with unanswered questions. Maybe watching another mercenary's antics would help distract him.
The Soldier yanked out a loaf of bread triumphantly but paused, his eyes narrowing. He turned to glare at one of his raccoons, who was gnawing on a dead YLW Scout's arm in the corner. Pointing at the loaf, Soldier barked, "Did either of you get into my bread?!"
Scout perked up at the demand, his curiosity piqued. The raccoons chittered and hissed at each other, ignoring Soldier's accusation. The Soldier slammed the bread onto the counter and lunged for the raccoons, grabbing them by their scruffs. "Which one of you thieving vermin did it?!" he growled, his voice rising as he struggled against their biting and scratching.
While Soldier wrestled with the raccoons, Scout's eyes drifted to the loaf of bread. He furrowed his brow as he leaned closer. Sure enough, a small, clean bite was taken from the loaf's end. It wasn't jagged or rough like a rat or raccoon would leave—it was neat, almost square like a tiny set of teeth had nibbled at it. Scout huffed, leaning back in his chair. Great, he thought, his stomach twisting. So I'm not going crazy after all.
He glanced at Soldier, still bickering with the raccoons, and quietly grabbed his empty soda can left on the table. As he rolled it between his hands, a thought gnawed at him. If it wasn't the raccoons… then what the hell is sneakin' around here?
Bored of watching Soldier wrestle with his raccoons over a loaf of bread, Scout stood up from his chair and tossed the empty BONK! can into the trash can. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he wandered down the hallway and into his room.
He sighed, flopped onto his bed, and grabbed his baseball from the nightstand. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward the ceiling. The ball arced up and fell back into his hand with a soft thud. He repeated the motion, the rhythm steady and deliberate, trying to drown out the nagging thought in the back of his mind.
It was just a doll, he told himself, watching the ball rise and fall every time he tossed it and caught it. It's probably just some dumb trick of the light or somethin'.
But the thought didn't go away. No matter how many times the ball hit his palm, the image of that small, moving figure lingered. He threw the ball a little harder, the sound sharper as it slapped against his hand. The ball slipped on the next toss, bouncing off the bed and rolling onto the floor. Scout groaned, dragging a hand over his face as he stared at the ceiling. What if it wasn't a doll?
The room was quiet, except for the springs' faint creak as Scout sat up. His eyes flicked to the ball on the floor, and he softly huffed. "Yeah, nothin' to worry about," he muttered, grabbing the ball and flopping back down. But the nagging thought refused to leave.
Pyro pampered their plush animal family, dusting away the pesky residue. Each fuzzy friend received a tender inspection, ensuring no raccoon mischief marred their charm. A chorus of giggles filled the air, and hands a-flutter in delight. They admired the enchanting array of dolls and plushies, each a little treasure.
Each of their dolls and plushies was perfectly arranged, and the display was a dazzling menagerie of whimsy and charm. The newspaper had promised a new shipment of dolls soon, and Pyro couldn't wait. Maybe a giraffe? No, a pony! Yes, maybe one with a horn—a unicorn!
Lost in their excitement, Pyro turned on their heel, imagining what else they might burn for Pyroland later. But they stopped mid-step, their head tilting as something caught the edge of their vision. A faint blur of white… or was it blue?
"Mmph?" Pyro murmured, glancing toward the spot. But there was nothing there. They blinked behind their mask and stepped closer, puzzling over what they thought they had seen. They noticed one of their Barbie dolls lying on the floor near the shelf's base.
Pyro gasped softly, gently picking up the doll. They scrutinized it, but their excitement faded when they realized something was missing. The tiny blue raincoat—the one the Tailor had so kindly made—was gone. At first, Pyro felt angry that the jacket had become the Barbie doll's favorite garment, but confusion replaced their anger.
Pyro hummed, their gloved fingers stroking the bottom of their gas mask. They glanced around the room, searching for the raincoat, but it was nowhere to be found. Rodents wouldn't take it—too big for a rat or a mouse. And rodents didn't wear raincoats anyway.
Placing the now-bare Barbie doll back in the drawer, Pyro stood still, tapping their foot against the floor in thought. Scout's earlier question about missing dolls crept into their mind. Pyro had dismissed it then—all their dolls were accounted for, and they had never brought one onto the battlefield. But now…
Pyro tilted their head, their thoughts buzzing like an endless beehive. Something didn't add up. How can one little jacket go missing? Most importantly, how would they explain this to the Tailor? The Pyro was worried about telling the Tailor that a doll's garment was missing and wondered if it was a good idea to say it had vanished. They clapped their hands together with sudden resolve—it was time to figure this out.
The Engineer leaned over his workbench, clad in his yellow hard hat, red overalls, and sturdy boots. His calloused hands steady as he examined the damaged dispenser from the previous battle. A bullet hole, courtesy of the Sniper, had torn clean through the panel during the last skirmish. Even after respawning, the dispenser hadn't fully recovered, and the damage needed fixing—same as always.
"Figures," Engineer muttered, shaking his head as he unscrewed the panel. The soft hum of nearby sentries filled the workshop, mingling with the faint metallic tang of oil and grease. He set the screws aside in a neat row, then lifted the panel to reveal the dispenser's inner workings.
Inside, snapped wires and shattered light bulbs greeted him. The bullet had left its mark, tearing through circuitry with pinpoint precision. The Engineer nodded thoughtfully, set his wrench aside, and then reached in to remove the broken components. His movements were practiced and deliberate, each step a part of a familiar routine.
The Engineer continued to work on the dispenser, methodically removing the broken light bulbs and snapped wires. His practiced hands moved precisely as he examined the other minor damage from the opposing teams. After fixing the inside of the dispenser, some paint and buffing could remove those dents and scratches.
As he removed the final broken lightbulb, a sudden flash of light caught his eye, drawing his attention back to the dispenser. His movements froze mid-reach, and he narrowed his eyes, scanning the room for the source. The glow returned briefly, this time from underneath one of his worktables, before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
The Engineer sat back, setting the bulb aside as his brow furrowed. Slowly, he stood, wiping his hands on his overalls, and reached for his trusty wrench. He approached the table cautiously, his boots thudding softly against the floor. Ain't nothin' should be glowin' down there, he thought, his grip tightening on the wrench.
The light flickered again, faint but deliberate, like a signal. The Engineer's breath hitched as it suddenly blinked out, leaving only shadows beneath the table. He crouched, his knees creaking as he peered under the three-inch gap. His wrench felt heavy in his hand, but the darkness under the table was heavier, swallowing the faint light of the workshop.
He strained to listen, ears pricked for the faintest sound—scurrying, scratching, even a quiet hum. But there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Just silence. His jaw clenched as unease prickled at the back of his neck. What the hell's goin' on here? The Engineer was still staring intently when a voice broke the silence behind him. "Engineer?"
He flinched violently, jerking upright and slamming his head into the edge of the worktable. A sharp metallic clang echoed through the room as he clutched his helmet, groaning in pain. Thank God for the hard hat; otherwise, he would have knocked himself out cold.
"Goddammit, Spy!" he growled, turning to glare at the figure standing in the doorway. The Spy, cigarette in hand, raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk on his lips.
"What are you doing, crawling around under the table like that?" Spy asked, his tone dripping with curiosity. He spoke with a French accent, one smooth with the accent.
The Engineer straightened slowly, still rubbing his helmet as he nodded toward the table. He explained, his voice smooth and with a Texan accent. "Somethin' flashed under there. Some kinda light. Problem is," he crouched again and stuck three fingers under the gap, gesturing for emphasis, "nothin' should fit down there. Sure as hell ain't no wiring that'd cause it, either."
Spy tilted his head slightly, exhaling a thin plume of smoke as his eyes flicked toward the table. "Interesting," he murmured, glancing back at the Engineer. "You're certain you saw the light?"
"I don't just go stickin' my head under tables for fun, Spy," Engineer shot back, his voice sharper than usual. He stepped back, glancing toward the table again as if daring the flash to return. "I know what I saw."
Spy chuckled softly, his tone low and amused. "Hmm… indeed. That is strange, laborer," he said, his tone calm but edged with curiosity. His gaze lingered on the table, then shifted back to the Engineer. "Perhaps you should investigate further. After all, if you say there's no wiring down there…"
"Don't need you tellin' me how to do my job," Engineer muttered, standing fully upright and brushing off his overalls. "But I'll tell ya this—somethin' ain't addin' up."
Spy took another drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. "Non. It would seem not," he replied, his smirk widening slightly. "But do be careful, mon ami. The last thing we need is you knocking yourself out because of a… phantom light."
Engineer scowled, pointing his wrench toward Spy. "And don't you go sneakin' up on me like that again. Almost knocked my own damn clock out, thanks to you."
"Ah, my apologies," Spy said, his smirk never fading. "I'll try to make my presence more… obvious next time." With a casual wave of his hand, Spy turned and strode out of the workshop, leaving Engineer alone with his thoughts.
The Engineer stood there for a long moment, his eyes flicking back to the worktable. The unease lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He crouched one last time, peering into the darkness, but the glow didn't return. Whatever had been there, if anything, was gone now. But the question remained: What the hell was it?
The sound of flesh squelching filled the medic bay, accompanied by the steady drip of blood onto the tile floor. The Medic, hunched over the corpse of a recently deceased YLW Soldier, worked with a quiet intensity. His bare hands danced within the open ribcage, navigating the delicate chaos of tissue and bone.
Armed with a surgeon's precision and a scientist's curiosity, he explored the maze. Secrets lay hidden in the elaborate corridors, waiting to be uncovered. Each twist and turn revealed new mysteries, beckoning his keen mind to delve deeper.
"Ja," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pulled free a healthy liver. "This will do nicely." He held the organ up to the light, his eyes shining with satisfaction, then nodded and put it into a bin filled with other collected organs.
The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of the overhead lights. Red streaks smeared the tiles as Medic leaned back over the body, his fingers disappearing into the chest cavity once more. He didn't care that his fingers, hands, wrists, and arms were covered with blood, almost like it was a part of his daily routine.
"These lungs," he muttered, his voice low but eager, "look promising." His hands gripped the edges of the ribcage as he peered deeper. "Ah, the heart. Still intact!" He chuckled softly as though uncovering a hidden treasure.
Around him, the stark white walls of the medic bay stood in stark contrast to the carnage below, the growing pool of crimson spreading like ink. Medic's focus didn't waver, his hands moving with practiced ease as he hummed a cheery tune under his breath.
Once he wrapped up with the healthy organs, Medic trod lightly. He skillfully dodged the organs already claimed by the YLW Medic, seeing the experimentations he had placed inside the body. With a practiced hand, he set the bucket of harvested organs into the sink—a final resting place for his meticulous collection.
He prepared to wash them of blood and store them in jars, ready for use in his experiments if replacements become necessary. But before he could begin cleaning, the door to the medic bay creaked open. The medic suppressed a groan, his fingers tightening briefly around the edge of the sink.
"Doc," came an Irish-accented voice from the Medic Bay's entrance. "Are you finished with that YLW Soldier's corpse?"
"Ja, I am," Medic replied, facing the speaker with a tight smile. "But I was about to clean the organs before you interrupted."
The Janitor loomed in the doorway. His slightly scuffed medium-green overalls told tales of hard work. His blue-grey shirt, with sleeves rolled up, revealed robust, calloused forearms. He had orange hair with mutton chops and light green eyes. The Janitor huffed, rolling his eyes before holding up his right hand to show the Medic. Blood trickled from several deep slices on his palm, the red stark against his rough skin.
"Well, I'm sorry for interruptin' your washin'," the Janitor said, his tone sarcastic, "but I got meself cut up on one of Demoman's bottles." He scowled, shaking his injured hand for emphasis. "I kept tellin' that lazy Scottish bum to clean 'em up, but does he listen? No, of course not!"
Medic stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the hand with clinical detachment. "Hmph. Deep, but not too deep," he murmured, adjusting his glasses as he examined the injury. "You'll live."
The Janitor's scowl deepened. "Oh, thanks, Doc. That's real reassurin'," he grumbled. "Meanwhile, I'm here leakin' all over the place because of Demoman's mess." He gestured sharply toward the sink. "Now, you think you can patch me up, or should I just bleed out and save you the trouble?"
Medic's lips twitched into a faint smirk as he gestured toward the nearest chair. "Sit down. I will patch you up. But the next time you bother me in the middle of work…" His tone grew sharper, though tinged with amusement. "You better bring me a more interesting injury."
The Janitor rolled his eyes but complied, muttering about "fancy doctors" and "bloody Scotsmen." The Medic listened to the Janitor muttering a rant as he washed his hands to remove the blood and returned to fetch his tools. The Janitor sat down on an empty gurney while holding his arm, allowing the blood to drip onto the floor instead of his green uniform.
The Medic used tweezers to remove the shards of glass embedded in the Janitor's injured hand. The Janitor grimaced but held still, his eyes darting occasionally toward the bloodied YLW Soldier's body. Medic worked with practiced precision, carefully plucking each shard. None of the glass had reached the bone, but the pieces were deep enough to sting with every tug.
As the glass slipped away, the Medic carefully laid down the tweezers. He wiped his hands clean with hydrogen peroxide, the sting cutting through the air. Meanwhile, the Janitor winced, pain etched on his face, yet he held firm, refusing to remove his hand.
After cleaning, the Medic wrapped the Janitor's hand in gauze to stop the bleeding. He worked efficiently, unfurling a roll of bandages to finish the job. But then he paused. Something wasn't right. The bandages had been tampered with—sliced cleanly down the middle, the edges almost too neat. Medic's gloved hand froze mid-motion, his eyes narrowing.
The Janitor noticed the hesitation, and his brow furrowed with confusion. "What?" he asked, his Irish accent sharp with curiosity. "What's wrong with your bandages?"
Medic perked up at the question from the Janitor, forcing a smile. "Oh, nothing is wrong, mein Freund. Just… distracted momentarily."
Before the Janitor could question further, a flash of white movement caught Medic's eye. He turned sharply toward the YLW Soldier's corpse. "Archimedes!" he scolded, spotting his dove snugly inside the open chest cavity. "Get out of there this instant! It's filthy in there!"
The Janitor blinked in disbelief as Medic bustled over to shoo the bird away. "You've got to be kidding me…" he muttered under his breath, glancing back at the dangling bandages on his hand.
As Medic chased Archimedes out of the corpse, the Janitor frowned at the bandages. The cut edges were too clean and too precise. That ain't from an animal, he thought, bewildered. No claws or teeth could cut that. So what the hell did?
Medic returned, brushing feathers off his coat with an exasperated sigh. "Birds," he muttered before wrapping the Janitor's hand. "There. All done."
The Janitor flexed his fingers experimentally, nodding in approval. "Thanks, Doc. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, jabbing a thumb toward the YLW Soldier. "I'll take this corpse to the pile with the others."
"Gut, gut," Medic replied, returning to his sink to clean the organs he had meant to clean. "And when the next battle ends, bring me more corpses. I will need their organs."
The Janitor winced at the casual request but said nothing, grabbing the table and wheeling the body out of the room. After the Janitor left, the Medic glanced at the door, his eyes lingering for a moment before he turned back to the tampered bandages.
He plucked the dangling end between two fingers, his brow furrowing. Too clean, he thought, his mind racing. Too precise. He tapped his finger against the roll of bandages thoughtfully. Who—or what—has been tampering with my things?
Deep inside the RED base walls, a tiny human adjusted the fabric raincoat they had snatched from the Barbie just before the Pyro caught on. The raincoat's azure fabric draped elegantly over their petite frame. It was just enough to guard against the chilly air and jagged splinters of rough wood. Underneath, their once-white shirt bore dirt's unwelcome embrace. The navy blue slacks, once sleek, now frayed at the edges, resembled ragged relics. Shredded and tattered, they were a shadow of their former selves.
They knelt briefly, swathing their feet in fresh bandages like armor. This protective layer shielded them from the sharp debris scattered across the ground. The bandages felt strange but sturdy, a small comfort against the relentless roughness of the walls. With everything adjusted, they straightened up and reached into their pocket, pulling out a tiny lightbulb.
Holding it carefully in their right hand, they focused. A faint glow began to pulse within the glass, growing brighter until it illuminated the pathway ahead. The light flickered slightly, but it was enough to reveal the narrow passage between the walls.
"This'll have to do," the tiny human murmured, their voice quiet but resolute. Turning on the lightbulb fully, they began walking, their footsteps almost silent against the dusty wooden floor. The walls around them felt vast and confining, a maze of beams, nails, and insulation patches.
Every so often, they paused, listening for any sound that might signal danger. The faint creak of the walls echoed softly, and the shadows cast by the glowing light seemed to stretch and shift unnaturally. But they pressed forward, their minds focused on one goal: survival and somehow finding a way to return to their normal height.