Chapter Text
You have lead people to assume you are male. You bind your torso with a confined, yet comfortable fabric that hugs your bosom. The outline of your chest is non-existent through your garbs. You are accustomed to attire that downplays your curves and gives you a more masculine appearance. Your new uniform meets this criteria.
“Nothing major...” Miss Pauling briefs you on the details of the job. “Just a lot of daily combat situations. I’m sure you’re used to that by now.”
She pauses to let her words sink in. The vehicle speeds alongside a variety of cacti, some dry grass, and a seemingly uncountable number of boulders.
“The contract you signed already explained this, but I feel a need to elaborate. Death isn’t permanent here. When you die, you will be sent back to respawn.”
Miss Pauling has your full attention. You tear your eyes from your open car window and bore your gaze into her reflection in the driver’s mirror. You tilt your head to the side and ask her how it works.
“To be honest, I don’t understand it. You can ask Engineer after you settle in. He probably knows.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and gives you a quick smile through the mirror to reassure you before returning her focus to the road.
You have been driving for what feels like hours. The air conditioning is broken and the hot desert wind is a poor substitute for the luxury of air conditioning that you've grown accustomed to in modern vehicles. The heat leaves your mouth dry and your forehead damp. Water mirages on the pavement ahead are as abundant as the sun’s unforgiving rays.
“Keep in mind, even if death isn’t permanent here, try not to die.”
You reach to your right and unscrew the lid off one of the water bottles that have been provided for you. The paper label is damp with perspiration. You take a sip. The heat has affected you more than you realized because the warm water is refreshing.
“I’m told respawn can be… uncomfortable.” There are hints of amusement in Miss Pauling’s voice. She continues, “Your mission is to capture the enemy’s intelligence. However, the other team has the exact same objective. Do you understand that you will be facing an opposing team that closely resembles your own?”
You nod. You do not understand the reasoning behind this. You are expected to fight an endless war where no one remains dead. You have agreed to do so because the payment is desirable.
The rest of the drive is dominated with descriptions of your future co-workers. Miss Pauling attempts to answer your questions matter-o-factly, while removing her opinion from the fray. It quickly becomes apparent she holds professional admiration for some and approbation for others. If she disapproves of the way any of them behave, it only shows when her description of their animated personalities becomes lacking.
The two-lane asphalt is desolate of other vehicles. Miss Pauling accelerates at least ten miles above the speed limit as she speaks. She only slows down when you pass through a sizeable mining town. A discolored population sign informs you that the community houses no more than two-thousand. Telephone poles trail alongside the left side of the road even after the town becomes a fading reflection in the driver’s side mirror.
It takes half-an-hour before Miss Pauling declares you’ve arrived at your destination. She takes a sharp left over a pop-up cactus display that guards an entrance in the canyon cliffs. Your route in is quickly veiled behind a conspicuous camouflage tarp. The whole environment reminds you of the Roadrunner and Wile E Coyote cartoon.
Miss Pauling parks just outside of a silver garage door connected to a towering white structure. The smoke stacks burning away on top of the roofs, accompanied by the wide label RED Bread on the sides of the building, give the base an akin appearance of a manufacturing plant.
“Your stuff is in the trunk,” Miss Pauling reminds you.
She pulls the keys from the ignition and exits the vehicle. You find the trunk to be unlocked when you retrieve your personal artifacts. Your duffle bag holds a few necessities; a tooth brush, tooth paste, a few handguns, a knife collection, and some reading material. You sling the strap over your shoulder.
The silver door opens seemingly on its own. Engineer is waiting on the other side in a garage generous enough in size that it could accommodate small plane. He removes his hand from the garage opener. You recognize him instantly from Miss Pauling’s verbal portrayal. The goggles are a dead give-away. You expected him to be taller.
“Hello there, I’m Engineer.” he greets as you approach. You meet him in the cool shadows of the garage. He extends a gloved hand to shake.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N.” you introduce yourself. You accept his hand. To your surprise, your grasp does not meet the sensation of cushiony flesh beneath the yellow glove. The clothing is full with a hard metal skeleton of a hand. The prosthetic has by no means lost its ability to clasp things. You gauge that Engineer could break the bones in your fingers by clutching too tightly, but his grip remains as firm and polite as is expected of someone who finds shaking hands with strangers to be second nature.
You hear the trunk shut from behind. Engineer nods in approval and relinquishes his grasp. He turns his attention to Miss Pauling as she enters the garage. He removes his hard hat and holds it in front of his torso with both hands.
“Miss, I feel it is my duty to inform you we undertook a mission in your absence, despite your request for us to otherwise refrain from such said activities. We got wind of the transportation of the intelligence and we took it upon ourselves to intercept it.” As he speaks, he fiddles with his hat anxiously. “I also feel the need to add that this particular dim-witted scheme was not of my own design.”
Miss Pauling’s eyes widen. Her back straightens and her shoulders become tense.
“Okay, we can take care of this. Whatever happened, we can fix this. I just have to figure out if there were any witnesses and possibly pay off the cops… no harm done. Nothing that can’t be fixed.” She contains her panic through planning. “Did anyone get arrested?”
“Nothing as dissatisfactory at that, Ma’am. While you were otherwise preoccupied in retrieving our newfound associate over here, we successfully eradicated the BLU and seized the intelligence. Scout delivered it to the war room about thirty minutes ago.”
Miss Pauling visibly relaxes. A sigh of relief escapes her.
“Excellent.” She grins victoriously. “That just leaves a few loose ends to tie up. I’ll take Y/N to their room and work on clean up.”
Engineer returns his hardhat to his head.
“Thought you’d like to know.”
He strays away towards the table in the middle of the room. Miss Pauling makes her way towards the stairs. You take that as your cue to follow.
“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” Engineer adds before you disappear from the room.
Miss Pauling walk is brisk and she is easily in lead. She has a natural bounce in her step that has been amplified by her need to complete her task. Together you traverse a maze of hallways. A dark beige stripe runs vertically through the white walls, with a significantly smaller red line drawn underneath it. Bullet holes and scratches tell you that these halls have seen combat. Cameras are stationed every few feet and you take note of the blind spots. There are signs posted around every curve with directions to vital areas of the base. You doubt you will ever lose your way.
The door to your quarters is painted to look like wood. It creaks when you open it. The room is decorated with basic furniture such as a bed, a desk without a chair, a dresser, and a few empty bookshelves.
“This room has never been used. This facility is meant to hold a lot more people than it actually does, but that means you will have plenty of room to move around,” explains Miss Pauling.
You advance inside, stepping on unsweetened coffee colored carpet floors that match the wood panel walls. The room stinks of the thick dust it is caked in. You hungirly eye the untouched bookshelves with the full intention of stocking them. You value a well written book and have a tendency to hoard literature. You are of the predisposition to buy novels on a whim, even if you are aware you will fall short of the task of actually reading the material.
“You can find blankets in the linen closet. Before I forget, let me give you my emergency number.” says Miss Pauling, reaching into her purse for a pen and paper pad. You spot a handgun tucked beside a pack of gum. She quickly scribbles down a phone number and hands it to you.
“I have to go,” She says as a means of goodbye before disappearing out the door. The hallway fills with the dimming sound of heels clicking against linoleum flooring.
You remove your bag from your shoulder and set it on the bed. You keep an unarmed piece tucked to your back under your belt and a knife strapped to you lower leg. You turn on the ceiling fan and approach the four-pane window. You pull the curtains aside, revealing a decent vantage point the backyard warzone. There is a railroad bridge hanging over the valley and you can just barely make out the BLU base behind a rocky horizon. The window has a lock on the inside to keep out wall climbing intruders. It is rusted and it takes a great deal of energy to unlatch it. A warm breeze hits you when you manage to shimmy the glass upwards.
You step back to admire your work, before collapsing lazily onto the naked bed. Your duffle bag lightly bounces from the sudden weight shift. Your unarmed piece digs into your back. You are wearied from travel. Your muscles ache for proper exercise. Your bladder joins in on the physical complaints being filed against you by your body.
You leave your room and wander the halls. It becomes clear you have miscalculated how simple it is to become disoriented in the network of passages. You are aware that the cameras twist to follow your footsteps. When Miss Pauling guided you, they remained stationary. Now the bulky black surveillance machines monitor your ever growing discombobulation. You pay them no visible attention.
You are about to give up hope when you stumble into a lounge area. A large number of your teammates are present and they are caught off guard by the sight of you. The air goes silent.
The room is moderately lit. There’s a white fridge, a Payload Pinball machine, an electronic Ciggy Stop cigarette vendor, and a television strapped to the top of a white rolling cart. The mercs sit in orange plastic chairs at a round poker table. Ash drops from the end of Soldier’s cigar.
You blink. The sound of conversations elevates back to a natural volume. There are sandwiches, chips, and beer littered along the table. There is a poker match in progress. Demoman and Soldier shoot penetrating glares at each other, a picture of competitive friendship. Sniper appears to be deeply concentrated on his cards and has the largest stack of accumulated chips.
Heavy dozes off beside Medic, only opening his eyes to check the progress of the game when the other’s jeers become too distracting. Medic holds his cards with one hand and fills out paperwork with the other. He glances up at you and you turn to leave.
“Yoo hoo! New guy!” Medic calls from the farthest seat from you. He discards his cards without a second thought and hastily scoops up his scattered paperwork. He springs from his chair to chase after you. You shift your footing to face him.
“Y/N, yes?” He smiles warmly. You give an affirmative nod. “Hello! I am Medic. I vill do your physical examination.”
His smile grows wider. He is taller than you and you have to tilt your head upwards to make eye contact. Miss Pauling narrated him as the doctor of the team. He has made advancements in medicine ahead of his time, but has made no attempt to share them for the benefit of society. He has a propensity for violence and a short temper, but is generally polite to his fellow teammates. You were warned to stay clear of his radar if you wished to avoid becoming a lab rat.
“Examination?” You repeat.
“It is just a standard procedure. Nothing to vorry about.” He waves a hand dismissively before adding, “I need to draw your blood as vell.”
“Another time. I have to go.”
You slowly back away.
“It vill only take a moment,” He promises.
“I need to use the bathroom,” You admit. He blinks.
“One second!”
He scrambles back to his seat and returns with a white doctor bag that has a blood red cross stitched to the side. Some papers fall to the floor as he rummages through it. You bend down to gather them for him. You rise, offering the papers to him, finding that he is extending his arm to give you a plastic medical cup with a screw on lid.
“Drug testing is mandatory,” He adds.
Your mouth opens ajar. After an awkward moment of silence, you press your lips tightly together and accept the container.
“The lavatory is around the corner, down the hall, to the right,” He answers your unspoken question.
You thank him and give the room one last look-over before departing. You put the medical cup in your jacket pocket and follow Medic’s directions. You arrive at your destination to discover there are two different restrooms, one marked by a bald stick man and another nearly identical stick man who's wearing a hat. You choose the bathroom that is the cleanest.