Kith And Kin Chapter 22: Clones And The Originals, a team fortress 2 fanfic

Beginning notes:
Tumblr: boredgrace23
Twitter: BoredGrace23

Don't be afraid to criticize! I want to improve as a writer and any sort of critique or analysis is welcomed!

This map isn't even 2fort anymore. I've butchered it horrendously. I'm so sorry my favourite past time map. Also, fancy Twitter link! I don't use it as often since I can't yap on there like I can on Tumblr, but I DO check it often.

Chapter 22: Clones And The Originals

The Asch Conformity Experiment.

Solomon Asch conducted the original experiment back in 1951.

50 participants from a college were told they were taking part in a vision test, splitting into groups with 6-8 confederates—actors working with Asch, unknown to the actual participants.

Each group received a simple task: Researchers showed them a series of flashcards, each with four lines; one line served as a standard line, the reference, while three other lines, varying in height, were labelled A, B, and C. Every participant was tasked to say which labelled line matched with the standard line.

Initially, out of the 18 trials, the first few trials the confederates would give the correct answers to gain the trust of the unknowing participants. Then, after two or three trials, they begin to say the incorrect answers.

Even when it was pointedly obvious that the answers were incorrect, the actual participant would answer last or near last, hearing several wrong responses before they gave their own answer.

When just one confederate gave the wrong answer, conformity would be about 5-10%. Meaning that having one ally could create group resistance. With a larger group of confederates, conformity would peak by about 30-35%, and adding any more confederates by 7 would add very little to that number.

Writing their answers had a drastic change, and conformity would be little to non-existent.

The experiment was to test how social pressure influences individual's decision-making and perception.

The conclusion? Societal pressure to conform swayed the participants in giving incorrect answers.

Medic was likely remembering wrong about some parts of the experiment, but the overall conclusion of the experiment was simply that. Conformity.

In a twisted way, the monster reminded Medic of that experiment, how that creature would conform to the rest of the mass even when everyone within it was in distress.

He wondered, through his hazing, panicking mind, if they were conforming to what the others in the monster said simply because of standards. Or if this was even their choice to begin with. He wondered if they were even still alive, still conscious of their decision-making.

It loomed over them.

Taunting, begging, crying.

It loomed over the two of them, and Medic's fingers grasped Demoman's waist protectively, his other hand tightening around the Scot's wrist. He could feel an equal grasp from Demoman, violently shaking against him as he stared at the ground and gasping, out of breath.

Medic looked over his shoulder at the thing behind them, his eyes widening and his breathing quickening. It threw itself against the wall, the building groaning under its weight and the ground shaking from its yelling. It was loud, and every noise was grating on his eardrums.

The ringing increased in his ears, ceaseless, crying for him to look at that thing. To look at them. To stare, since that was what he always liked doing before today. He loved staring. And isn't it beautiful? Isn't it what you wanted to be a part of? Isn't this what you were made for? Medic, Medic! Run! Come back! Turn away! Blue light! Blue light! Blue light-

He pushed those thoughts into the back of his mind, his heart thumping in his chest as he laughed. He laughed at that thing because he didn't know what to do anymore. There was just too much going on.

It was almost two stories tall, and stretching unnaturally before sinking into itself, like a twisted kaleidoscope that was melting. It was a thin wall, then a large dough, before shifting into a person, before it was formless and nothing, it was everything that collided together, before it melted back into nonexistence. Twisting, mutating within itself, breaking apart before reinventing itself.

There was a beat that passed in his chest, like something was wrong with this. That there was something wrong with fundamentally everything. He was staring at something that shouldn't exist in nature; he was staring when he shouldn't be. It knew what that last look in his gaze was. The relief. It wanted him to see its relief, that it was relieved. And happy.

It wasn't, though.

That's just what he thought it looked like. His logic told him not to trust his brain, because brains have always lied to protect themselves. When he first diagnosed him with dissociation, he told him this. Brains protect people in the wrong way. Medic's brain was not protecting him.

'But this is wrong,' his mind murmured. 'This is wrong, and you know it.'

"THERE! THERE'S THE LIAR!"

"Hey- he- hey! Hey… hey…"

Medic ran, feeling Demo's legs drag behind him before regaining his balance. He didn't want to run, didn't feel like running away anymore. He was so tired of this, exasperated, and he just wanted to eat that food Heavy was cooking.

It would offer that; warmth sanctuary. It could give him that. Give Medic him back.

But his instincts of needing to survive to heal Demo, his body's inability to fight against those thoughts of someone harmed, that he needed to escape because Demoman was injured, and that he needed to heal him, because that would make him too incompetent if he turned him away, worked against him. It irritated him as he tried to ignore the feeling of not wanting to die. Of wanting to live just to heal.

No. Things don't go Medic's way. No. External factors always worked against him, and he felt himself come to a halt as Demoman sagged in his arms, defeated, and the Medic took the brunt of his weight in shock.

"I'm tired…" Demo slurred. "You need to run."

Medic lacked a response; wasn't able to respond to him. His mind raced, urging him that he needed to run, to escape, that this was wrong but so right, because this monster would accept him, take him in and care for him. It would cry with him, laugh, share drinks, dance with him. Like his family would.

It was just in his brain.

Medic squats down until he stands at Demo's legs, scooping his calfs and rolling him over his shoulders, all the while he feels the Scot shiver uncontrollably in unadulterated fear. Demo gasps at the abrupt movement, squirming in his grip.

"Liar!"

Unlike earlier when Demoman refused to be picked up by him, he instead sags against Medic while he sobs. He muttered words that he could barely understand, Scottish expressions mixed with his slurred speech, and the god awful cheering from behind them. C'mon, this isn't in your brain, this is here, now, this is your relief-

In his brain. In his brain. Shut-up. Don't think those thoughts. Don't think those thoughts. He'll manifest them. They'll become true if he keeps thinking about them.

Medic doesn't answer Demoman's mutterings, sprinting down the narrow pathway with the two of them crammed between the fence and the building. He could hear metal warping from behind him, along with a cacophony of crying and laughter and yelling. Screaming, screaming, screaming for them to run, to come back, to hide.

Sand and dirt were kicked up from beneath his feet, the gravel slowing down his movement too much for his own comfort. His arm was curled around Demoman's knee, holding his hand simultaneously with the same arm in a fireman's carry.

He never needed to use his skill sets often in the field. It wasn't necessary with the function of the respawn machine, not to mention the little healing packs scattered throughout each of the bases.

It was odd to experience something like this again, and he swallowed this rare feeling greedily, because he rarely ever got to experience that he was actually doing something. That Pauling didn't hold him down, because she didn't trust him.

Despite his wish of wanting to settle down and teach medicine, in some ways, he'll always be a mercenary.

In some ways, he'll always be a blood-thirsty man.

In some ways, he'll always be Humboldt.

"No… no, not liar! Not liar! Not—not liar…"

"No. Liar. Liar… L-Lie…"

"MOM! M—MOM! DAD!"

"Medic-"

"Shut up. I'm trying to concentrate." He interrupted.

When he only receives light sobbing, snivelling beside his ears, he grits his teeth. Demoman didn't say anything.

Medic adjusts him on his shoulders, eyes going to the windows and seeing unfamiliar rooms. He saw his own expression from the glass, catching his manic expression and tearing his gaze away from his too dead eyes. Quit staring. Those eyes aren't his. No… they are. No… they aren't. Or it was. Or it wasn't. Or it was his. Or it was brown. Brown, relieved, hysterical, hysterical, laughing, and laughing. Cackling.

He couldn't shatter the window to escape this monster; he didn't have time nor did he even have anything he could use to shatter the glass.

Break. Break. Break. Break.

He tried to keep Demoman steady in his grip while he ran, staring straight ahead and trying not to listen to their cries, their pleas that sounded too familiar to him. They're crying that everything hurts, that they were in so much pain, that they wanted it to stop, soft laughter trailing after their sobs from indiscernible strangers.

"Please—please!"

Medic wasn't sure if it was Demo or the monster or even himself that said that, focusing on only sprinting and pushing his legs through the gravel, sand, and dirt. He could feel rocks being kicked up from behind him, the sharp ones sticking through the weak part of his sole.

The building was large, and it would take a 40 minute marathon to run just two sides of the building. He wasn't sure where they were located at the moment either, and he didn't want to risk running through the building again. Didn't want to see them. To see him.

Didn't want to acknowledge the shell running around. The husk of a person. He didn't want to hear his voice, see those relieved, brown eyes, those eyes that stared at him as his lips curled into an enormous grin, dimples showing along with his freckles on his cheeks being pushed up. And stared, and stared, and stared, until they were just as emotionless as him. Until they were dead.

Medic could still feel his eyes trained on him, that eerie feeling of something watching him, staring, and staring, and staring.

Sweat built up, and his mouth dried. He blinked his dry eyes, feeling something watching him from behind his back as his chest squeezed. It was as if there was something watching him, waiting for him to slip, to trip, to let that thing from behind him capture him. The hair on his arms raised, a shiver coursing through him, all the while Demoman muttered incoherent words beside him.

Demoman was going insane just as he was, ringing swirling Medic's head.

Words whispered in the back of his mind, whispers, and whispering. Its murmurs were senseless in words. In tone, it was horrible. Sharp, cruel, degrading, but all the same, like an excited crow.

Real.

Those voices were real.

"No. No. No."

It was the monsters. Or it was Demoman. Or it was him. Or it was them. Or it was-

"No. No. No. No."

It was him.

"No. No."

Eyes stared at him. They were staring.

"No. No."

It was Demoman.

"NO! NO! NO!"

Ringing screamed in his head, making it impossible to think any other thoughts, blood rushing to his head and making it impossible to hear a sound. His senses numbed, and he couldn't feel Demoman's skin, couldn't see, or taste, or smell.

All he saw were those eyes.

All he heard was that ringing.

Through his blurring vision, he saw a gate and a door-sized shudder, blocked by a fence that had a barbed wire coiled over the top.

He paused for a second too long, flinching when he heard the moan of the walls behind him, as well as the shattering of glass that sprinkled across the ground and onto the monster behind them.

Nothing, everything. It was all but naught. It was this and that. It'll cry with him, break into hysterics, be manic with him. No, it wouldn't. But it would, in a sense. No. No. No. It would. It wouldn't.

In his brain. In his brain. In his brain. IN HIS BRAIN. IN HIS BRAIN.

He looked around his immediate area, head whipping back and forth. The fence next to them had the same wire coiled over top, and the windows he could enter through were too close to the monster for comfort.

Sobbing beside his ear. Sobbing for Medic to just drop him. To give up like he did earlier. That he wasn't his patient. But he was right now. He needed to keep him alive…

But why?

He looked back at the fence, flinching once more when the voices were so close, they were so close, and that ringing had picked up.

He could hear every mutter and whisper, getting so much closer than before, wanting him to join them, to run, to flee.

They screamed, yelled, laughed, taunted, cried, sobbed, jeered-

Did the sun get brighter? Did the sky get more blue? Was the dirt so brown, so relieved?

Quit staring. QUIT STARING.

He returned to the fence and, using only one hand, began climbing upwards in a quick, desperate manner. The fence rattled under his weight, and he could hear sobbing from beside his ear, unable to tell who they belonged to.

As he reached the top, his left arm—the sleeveless one that had been used for Demoman's bandages—awkwardly slammed into the barbed wire. Medic exclaims in pain, but he doesn't pull his arm back, feeling the first traces of blood as the barbed wire slices into his arm.

He could see the trickles of blood that dripped onto the fence, and he gritted his teeth, hand pressing down into the barbed wire and gasping. He grunted, pained, before he took another step up the fence.

"Medic-" Demoman.

"Shut-up." Medic gruffly replies, interrupting once more.

Demoman didn't say anything.

Brain. Brain. Brain. Brain.

Once he was overlooking the fence, his arm trembling from the barbed wire that glued onto his skin, digging into his arm relentlessly and clawing into him, trying to take hold, he rolled Demoman off his shoulders and over the wire to prevent injuring him more than he already was.

Demo lets out a brief scream that was cut off just as he hit the ground with a thump, gasping and rolling onto his stomach to hold his back.

Medic clambered over the fence once Demo was safe, barely giving attention to the monster behind him, to their sobbing and laughter and yelling. He twisted himself over, grunting, exclaiming with pain whenever the claws dug into his flesh. His hands and feet slipped, and he threw him to the floor, barking in agony when he fell at an awkward angle.

His hands shuddered, cool blood staining his arms, and his vision spun. It was as if reality had shifted, and he was no longer there.

Medic cries in agony at the shot of painful bruising, holding his arm and feeling stale, cold blood that seeped between his fingers. Peering over his shoulder to look at the monster.

It expanded, then degraded, moving, swirling, twisting. It made noises, too much noise that it hurt his ears, gentle and soothing, pained and screeching, fiery and spiteful. Sounds emanating like a twisted choir.

It was breathing.

It was alive.

"Medic." Demo gasped. He knew he did, because he saw the other man's lips move. That was Demoman speaking.

The Medic remains silent, forcing himself to his feet before pulling Demoman up alongside him. They both stagger toward the door, and his hand rushes to the intercom off to the side, frantically pressing the button. When he quickly realizes it wasn't budging, a scream of frustration escapes him, and he kicks the shudder with his heel.

It wasn't opening.

His eyes darted to the gate, indifferent to how roughly he was handling Demoman now. They had to escape. Demoman was his patient, and his patient needed to be healed, to see, to watch, to know.

The thrill of surviving and of fighting was never like him. Or it was. Or it was Humboldts. Or it was his. When did those small specks of light flash through his vision?

"Medic!"

Even with these fucking freaks, he was still hearing that godforsaken word.

BANG.

It was close now.

He could hear all of their breathing combining into one, different in volume, gargles, mutters, and groans more discernible than it was from a distance. Close. It was close.

Demo was barely moving with him, and he yanked him by his forearm. His arms were weaker now, his arms shaking and hurting so much. They hurt so much. He needed a healing item. He needed to respawn before he got tetanus.

"For God's sake, Demoman!" Cried Medic, gasping. His accent was clear. "Ve need to go!"

"'M real… tired." Demo breathed.

…What?

Medic's head twisted towards him, eyes looking him up and down with alarm. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage for his eye, red clumping and dripping down his cheek. Even with the scrunched up fabric he used from Demoman's pants, having used his own sleeve to bind it down, it was still seeping through.

And he was still sobbing.

"You're not allowed to die." He grits out.

His hand slams into his eye, and he drags him towards the gate. Without giving Demo a warning like he had with the window earlier—they didn't have time for niceties—he scoops his arms beneath his knees, taking his spine, and throwing both himself and Demoman over the farm gate.

He staggers at the drastic change of weight, but quickens himself and runs.

Feet pounding against the concrete that slowly turned to grass, he huffed, pushing his legs as hard as he could to outrun the monster behind them.

Demoman, in his arms, began to sag.

It was an awkward angle to hold him at. It wasn't secure. He was becoming heavy, but he needed to keep moving, to reach somewhere safe. To escape with the remaining mercenaries.

The sun beamed against him, burning his skin in a way that was uncomfortable. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his breathing was ragged. He was tired. He couldn't stop, though. His heart hammered against his chest, his lungs burning.

Each step was calculated, trying to not slip, to trip, on the gravel and sand and concrete that morphed into grass. The field was extensive, looming and eye-grating. Taunting, mocking him that they wouldn't escape, that he would always be forever running.

He screamed.

Pushing himself to go further, to run.

Demoman had fallen unresponsive.

He hugged him closer to his chest.

His lungs hurt, his entire body was sore, and the blood from the barbed wire had dug deep into his skin, stinging from the open air. He was numb and tired, and all he wanted to do was go back to his room and sleep.

Somehow, through his rapidly deteriorating mind, he wanted a smoke.

Spy's smokes, specifically. He missed the smell of it whenever the man was cloaked, invisible and roaming through the hallways wanting to be left alone, or when he would come to find Medic when he wasn't up for socialising.

He always chose the rich, bold tasting ones, Marlboro Black Menthol being his preferred brand. It wasn't the type of brand Medic preferred—too strong of an acidic stench and taste that lingered on his tongue and in his throat. He was more into Gold Bond that Spy would occasionally bum off him.

He missed sharing smokes with him, missed simply sitting with the team and drinking, or watching them play games that would quickly break out into fights. Only a day since this entire thing began, and he was missing something he never thought he would miss. He cared for his team, he always understood that he liked his team, but he never realised just how much loved them.

He wanted a break from all of this. He was so tired of that ringing, of those thoughts that weren't his, of the feeling of bugs crawling in his skin. But there weren't bugs crawling in his skin.

He wanted his team back. The BLU team. He wanted them back.

He came to a halt near the edge of the murky, stagnant water of the makeshift river, near where the bridge had been, and staring at the utterly collapsed structure that left only remnants of wood strewn about.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, iron, and piss, and the sewer stretched out, unnaturally dark. Briefly, he wondered if the lights were shut off. There were only two sewer entrances, and if anyone fell into the river below, the only way back up was through the sewers, or if someone was agile enough to scale the walls.

He eyed the polluted water below him warily, knowing full well that jumping into the deeper waters would be a reckless gamble—one that would put him and Demo at risk. Without any access to clean bandages, disinfectants, or even basic medical supplies, any exposure to the filthy water would give both of them an infection.

He needed to find another way around, a shallow end, or even to turn back around to the BLU base and head back to the infirmary.

It was a mistake to look back.

Standing afar, almost too detached from the large monster, stood a single man.

His figure was too familiar to mistake it for anyone else.

His face fell, and he felt his heart stop.

"Heavy?"

Static swarmed his vision, Demoman having suddenly become heavy in his arms.

There was Heavy in all of his glory, standing near the slope of the first entrance.

It was his team's Heavy. It was Heavy.

It was Heavy, because he could see the blue, even from where he was standing, even a courtyard away.

It was Heavy.

Heavy was gone.

Someone pulled his leg out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground as Demoman flipped off his shoulders; he had no time to breathe before being pulled away from Scot. He screamed, frustrated, exasperated, and so fucking tired.

He looked back at where Heavy was.

He was gone, replaced by the large monster.

The large monster stood like a house; a tornado that rapidly approached from the front. Nothing changed, morphing in and out of itself, twisting and churning. It was there, then it wasn't, a cardboard box that spilled only light items, that spilled only keepsakes.

Through his hazy vision, Medic looks over his shoulder to see RED Pyro dragging him into the water, and he yells. He screams and roars until his throat hurts, howling with each kick to the hands that pinned him.

Heavy was gone.

His teammate, their wall, their guide, was dead.

Medic screams—frustrated, anguished, angered—as he's pulled into the river, grasping at the grass desperately. Through his pain, his agony, the fear and desperation that held its tight claws around him, he had enough sense to grab Demo and pull him down into the water with him.

The pit of Medic's stomach was weightless as he fell, and he took one last gulp of air, hearing every surrounding noise abruptly halt as he plunged into the water.

It wasn't as cold as he thought it would've been.

His ears filled with the muffled rush of water, dragging him deeper into what was essentially sewage, his vision blurred by drifting sand, dirt, and bubbles. Demoman's body had loosened from his grasp, his eyes burning as he waved through the water to take hold of his body, but felt nothing a second later.

His scream was dampened, and bubbles were expelled as something painfully clamped his foot.

He couldn't feel the melting of flesh, only rubber grasping his foot and ankle. Whatever RED Pyro was wearing was tight enough to keep whatever remained of them from reaching him.

Water crashed around him, his mouth filling with water, his lungs caught on the waves crashing down his throat, suffocating him.

He kicked, squirming against the grip that held his ankle. His hands brushed against the dirt at the bottom of the makeshift river, and he could feel the chilly breeze as his fingers brushed the air.

He was so close to reaching the surface.

He was right there.

His vision blacked, and his beating heart had begun to calm.

It was peaceful.

For a split second, he considered letting himself die. He wasn't unfamiliar with drowning, and neither were the RED or the rest of the BLU team. They drowned as frequently as they were stabbed, shot, and dismembered.

He never liked it, the sensation of that burning agony in his lungs and throat, that instinctual panic that he was drowning and that he was going to die, and the floating sensation when his vision began to splotch near the corners.

But he wanted to die, anyway. He was tired. He wanted to sleep.

He couldn't die right now, though.

Demoman was still in the water and passed out, and if he died, Medic would be left alone. He had enough coherency now, able to hear his own thoughts after listening to that ear-piercing screaming and ringing, to realize that he didn't want to be alone. Surviving against those things alone.

He was tired.

He didn't want to be alone, and maybe it was cruel of him to keep Demoman alive for that selfish reason, but so was RED Medic. Humboldt had always been cruel, and so he should be, too.

He and Demo weren't familiar with one another, barely having any proper conversation besides insults and shooting or, in Demoman's case, using explosions to kill one another. They never gave each other the time of day, not a glance or even a passing thought, besides that they were in the opposing teams.

Everything was wrong.

Everything differed from the norm.

And he didn't like it.

With one last burst of strength, he drove his heel into Pyro's hand.

He didn't want to be alone.

The hand holding him had loosened, and he urgently propelled himself up using the dirt beneath, coming for air with a gasp.

He gagged, coughing on the disgusting taste of water. His vision spun, and his lungs ached.

He didn't want to be alone.

He was still alive.

He didn't want to be alone.

He didn't hesitate, propelling himself toward Demo, who, fortunately, was drifting upward. He needed to escape, they both needed to escape, to live. But he just wanted to become a monster so badly. It was so painful to keep moving. He was so tired.

The shadow lurking beneath the water lunged, and he gasped, slurred, his mouth tasting of copper. Moving through the water felt agonizingly slow, leaving him vulnerable. His legs kicked behind him. His body ached, and he gagged again, every sensation sharp and overwhelming.

His hands found the Scot's body, arms twisting around his waist before his other arm went to his head. He pushed himself through the murky water until they reached the sewers. The ringing in his head had never left, the smell of the sewage water stung his nose, and the crying, the sobbing, it was more loud than the laughing ever was.

His knees struck a slope, and he scrambled up, hauling Demo through the filthy currents. The sewers were dark, everything dark within, consuming, haunting. He didn't have a choice but to walk through them.

The world spun around him as he jerked his head toward the creature, his pulse pounding. As he staggered to his feet, the water sloshed around his knees, and he staggered, slipping on something wet.

A short scream tore from his throat as Pyro rushed toward them—then a loud splash to his right. He didn't need to look to know it was Heavy. That it was a monster.

He looked back at the sewers and dragged a lifeless Demo by his armpits, pushing himself deeper into the enclosed space, barely illuminated.

Everything was melting, morphing together until the entire area smeared across his vision. Hands pressed against his shoulders, and he quivered at the weight, at the hands that smeared their skin against his clothing.

Or, not hands…

No, it was just water.

Medic's foot splashed in the murky sewer water, eyes trailing back to the monster behind them. Water splashed beneath his legs as he waded through it, grimacing, and trying his best to keep Demo levitated above the water to prevent drowning him further. His wounds were already infected.

"The water's bad… it's… bad… for wounds… doctor says so… doctor says it's bad…"

"Don't go in water! Don't go in water!"

He didn't know who those voices belonged to.

He heard plash from behind him, waves of water pushing Medic forward while Demoman remained limbless in his arms.

He wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to leave him alone. He wasn't allowed to.

Water waded, causing his movements to be slower. The sewers echoed, their voices were louder than any other noise, screaming for him to do something that he wasn't sure what. His body was sore, his legs ached, and the barbed wire injuries had amplified to a screeching pain.

Throughout the large sewage system, he could feel rocks, dirt, wood, and many materials that hit his legs while he descended further into the darkness, stepping on soft and rough material that he didn't want to discern what it was. It smelled of rot, feces, urine, and a foul odour that stung his nose, burning and causing him to gag.

His vision, worst of all, was completely gone, left in the abyss.

It wasn't preferable being in the sewers. It wasn't preferable being in the dark. It wasn't preferable being chased by a monster.

But he had no choice in any of this.

Because he was always the lucky survivor, because life never gave him a damn break, and now that he was still alive, life decided to fuck him over and decide that he never gets to die.

Because he was just a damn clone.

A knock-off.

And knock-offs weren't worthy of living their own life.

And he was never going to be worth a damn, since he was just a copy of someone who was always better than him.

Medic coughed, remnants of dirt and sand on his tongue, gagging, and grunting, before his panting had filtered into a cracked, low chuckle, a crooked grin stretching across his lips.

"Come… back… those are the r—right words… back!"

He barked out a single guffaw.

"STOP! STOP IT!"

Then he laughed.

"Not liar! Liar! Liar! You lying whore!"

And laughed.

"Are… we—we sti- still… you? We… we are you. No…"

Laughed.

"FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!"

But it wasn't him laughing. He wasn't laughing. Laughing wasn't him.

Medic shifted Demo in his arms, throwing him slightly up and briefly pausing to lift his knees into his arm. He didn't have the time to do the fireman carry. He needed to escape with Demo; he needed to keep his wounds from getting any more infected; he needed to keep him safe.

His legs burned from how much he was moving them, the water, Demoman, and his overall exhaustion weighing him down. He wasn't going fast enough, and he wheezed, gagging on the stench of the sewers, his aching lungs.

He grunted while wading through the water, waiting for it to end at some point. Demoman weighed heavily on him, and he had gasped rapidly, exhausted from having run around and weary from carrying Demo.

He was tired.

He wasn't sure where he was going, which direction he was heading in. The pitch black surrounded him, the screaming of the monsters behind him roaring endlessly. Everything hurt, and all he wanted to do was sit down and breathe.

He was tired.

He slipped on the slope of the wall, grunting when he collapsed into the wall of the sewers. He slipped into the water, hearing the splash reverberate throughout the tunnels, and he groaned. Half his body was in the sewage, and he struggled to keep Demoman's head above the fluid.

He was tired.

Something squelched beneath his foot as he stood up, trying and failing to keep the monster's constant background noise out of his head. The ringing had become more prominent, and he could hear the monster making its way towards him.

Demoman was tired.

He pushed himself through the water urgently, his foot occasionally gliding on slippery substances, while his arms ached. He felt disgusted; he felt dirty; he just wanted to go back to his team.

He didn't know where he was anymore. The sewers were long, almost just as long as the BLU base was. There were several entrances and dead ends, and barely any way to leave the sewers besides having to walk for a dozen blocks.

His eyes weren't adjusting to the dark, and his breathing echoed around him. Demoman was still silent throughout it all; his skin had also cooled, and there was barely any breathing coming from him. He couldn't feel a twitch, the Scot's stomach lifting, or even a grunt. He wasn't making a sound, and Medic only pushed himself forward.

He could feel the swelling in his legs, the symptoms of withdrawals. Demoman was going to die and leave him alone.

He didn't know how much time had passed, only listening to the receding sounds of the monster. It was still close, but it wasn't close enough to kill him.

Medic could feel the dried, crusted blood from when Demoman had beaten him flake off. The minor bruise on his lip and eye had flared up once more, and the pressure in his skin and arms had tightened.

The sewage had most likely gotten into his wounds and infected him, and he felt gross. He felt gross as he slowed to a walk through the sewers, feeling objects brush against his legs and the cool water beneath his waist.

He was gross, and Demoman was still not waking up.

Medic readjusted him, his muscles aching. There was water dripping off the ceiling, and gently hitting the murky stream below, echoing throughout the tunnel. He could hear the faintest of cries, along with yelling, laughter, and sobbing. He wasn't sure what they were crying about, if they were crying about anything.

He couldn't make out his immediate surroundings, and he felt as if his eyes were closed without them actually being closed. Darkness loomed all around him, and he let out a feeble cough, tired.

Medic knew he couldn't keep running, not with Demoman as injured as he was, and with himself having not eaten, slept or drank anything in the past day. He also suffered a cut arm from the barbed wire and a sprained foot from his bad landing off the fence.

He kept moving.

Once he reached Humboldt's infirmary, he'd have supplies to heal both himself and Demoman, and he'd have a way to contact Pauling. He needs to tell her about the water in the town, about what had happened in the time they haven't spoken.

After Jeremy had returned the phone to him, he and Pauling continued their conversation. It wasn't anything important, only providing what their next course of actions were. He knew she should be at the motel by now, so, after contacting her, he'll find Sniper. Then Heavy.

'Heavy's dead,' supplied his mind.

Medic's stride had slowed to a walk, having noticed his limp, with only the distant twisted choir of the monster fragmenting the silence in the tunnels.

His chest tightened, and his knees felt weak. His heart throbbed, his lungs and chest aches from exhaustion, and his mind spun.

Heavy was gone.

Medic stared at what he thought was ahead, unable to sense anything else. The water had numbed to body temperature, all of his wounds were only muffled aches, and Demoman weighed heavily on his shoulder.

He knew it was Heavy from the blue of his uniform, from the silhouette of his body.

He was gone.

He was dead.

Medic was the only one left.

He wasn't sure whether he should be crying, screaming, or wallowing at the unfairness of it all.

Everyone on the BLU team was gone.

And Medic was the only survivor.

The irony never escaped him.

The weight on his shoulder lifts abruptly, the shifted mass causing him to stagger and lightly gasp in surprise. He tilts, slipping on something wet and slimy, and tumbling into the water.

His elbow cracked against the curve of the tunnel, and he bit back a cry, slapping his hand at where he hit himself, holding his elbow. The sounds of the water splashing echoed throughout the tunnels, the monsters crying from behind him louder than before.

He clamped his lips together in a tight pinch, staring behind himself in a poor attempt to see if it had heard him. His breathing was heavy even with him muffling it, and his ears listened for the crooning of the monster.

One second.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

It wasn't nearby.

The water splashing reverberated off the walls as he stood up, walking towards where the weight had fallen. Demoman fell off his shoulders, and he kept his arm extended to the wall to prevent himself from losing his sense of direction.

"Demoman." He wasn't sure why he called out for him. He wasn't awake. But that was the problem. "Demoman."

When he didn't get a response, he panicked. Demo was gone. Medic dropped to his knees, his hands feeling the surroundings, pushing his arms through the water in case he had sunk, and sensing disgusting, slimy substances and chunks of soft and hard material, squelching in his hands, warm and cold and rough to the touch, and he gagged at the putrid scent while patting the water to feel for Demoman's body.

He didn't want to be left alone.

"Demoman." He called with a bit more volume.

He was alone down here.

"Demoman, answer me!"

He was alone down here with that thing.

"Demoman!"

He came to the sudden realization that Demoman had died.

He died, and he was alone.

Medic sat in the water, gazing vacantly at the water beneath him. The ringing had increased in his ears, and there was a muffled white noise, TV static in his ears.

He couldn't have died from blood loss. There wasn't enough time for him to have died from blood loss. Withdrawals? How long has it been since this entire thing began? 18 hours? 20 hours? It should've been a day, and with how much of a heavy drinker the Scot was, withdrawals should've set in hours before.

Swollen legs, slurred speech, fatigue.

Heart failure, he concluded.

He was then hit with a paralysing fear.

He wasn't supposed to be fearful; that wasn't like him. Feeling fear, being scared of being alone, wasn't like him. Those were alien emotions to him, and it only caused anxiety to clamber up his throat, constricting his breathing.

He was petrified.

And he was so scared of that fact.

He was alone now, and he was forced to walk through these tunnels. Alone.

He opened his mouth, head turned up to the ceiling of the sewage tunnels, as he tried fruitlessly to scream. No other sound besides wheezes escaped his sore throat.

He gasped, sputtering and choking on the rancid air, sand and dirt grinding in his throat.

He was alone.

He couldn't recall how long he walked through the tunnels, staggering and limping. The water hadn't receded, and he could feel himself hunched over, mouth open for any passing smell that wasn't waste.

And that ringing. That monster.

He could still hear them. He can still hear their voices, crying, sobbing, laughing, cackling, screaming. Even when he was far from it, they were still there, hunting him, waiting for him to make a mistake.

A stumble.

A stagger.

Tripping over glass, metal, wood, shit, mold.

A cough.

Wheezing and gasping for breath, he felt as if he was going to get a bloody nose purely from the rancid stench of the sewers. A few times, he had vomited while he lumbered through the tunnels, hearing the sound of it splashing sickeningly into the murky waters.

He wanted to die.

He was going to die.

Medic still felt the sting of the cuts in his skin from the barbed wire, the water seeping through his clothes and dripping down his hair, down his cheek and neck like a cold touch, and the way his skin tightened around the bruises and open wounds. His sprained ankle hasn't healed yet, and he couldn't tell if the pain meant it would be injured for a while longer, or if it was just taking its time to recover.

He was going to get sick from this if he didn't respawn.

None of them ever had to worry about infection, not with respawn. And the few times one of them did somehow manage to get an infection, they always had the Medi-gun or the healing items.

Medic had neither.

He slipped on another slope, catching himself before he sunk deeper into the sewage. The cement of the wall was rough, his fingernails non-existent from how often he had scraped against them, and he tilted his head towards where he thought another tunnel was.

"—ere—wh—"

He couldn't decipher what the monster was saying.

Medic hadn't walked far before slipping on another slope, tumbling into the water and scraping his hand against a protruding cement block, the cuts in his palm deepening. He grits his teeth and throws his hand to his chest, hugging it tightly. He stood up and continued down the tunnels, holding his hand.

Another slip, another turn of the corner.

Another trip, another turn of the corner.

Off and on this continued, slipping on a slope that indicated there was either a dead-end or another corner.

Another slip…

When he paused.

He could make out the faint silhouette of a platform, the buttons on the system boxes built into the walls lambently glowing like stars. There were railings alongside a door, and he walked closer to the platform, eyes wide.

He knew this place.

Once he had reached the stairs of the platform, he twists his head to the tunnels.

The way out was nearby.

Medic moved urgently, uncaring for the noise he was producing with the water. He took long strides, speeding through the water, as he gasped.

He turned another corner, when, almost too faint, he saw light. It wasn't bright by any means, but after having roamed through the sewers for what felt like hours, his lips twitched agape and he felt himself move before he could process what he was doing.

He sped towards the light as fast as he could, pushing through the water, a twisted giddy feeling extending throughout himself. He was almost out of the sewers. He was almost out of the darkness.

The staircase was only a few steps in front of him.

One step.

Then another.

Another.

Then one last step.

He practically heaved himself over the stairs, gasping, panting, and wanting to sit down and laugh. But laughing wasn't like him.

Before he had reached the second staircase, he tripped over something soft, bouncing on one foot to balance himself before he fell against the wall. His eyes widened, and he looked down at what he tripped over, his feet stepping in puddles of blood as he heard his heels click on the cement floor.

It was difficult to see who was lying on the ground because of the dim light and position, and he crouched over hesitantly, arms stretching deliriously slowly towards the person.

He touched their shoulder, and he turned their body over.

Scout.

Scout, Scout, Scout, Scout, Scout, Scout, Scout—

He yells and stumbles backwards, falling onto the cement staircase behind himself while staring at Scout's face.