Chapter Text
“Happy birthday to mee…”
Under the quiet desert night, only one spot of light penetrated the barren, dusty surroundings of a large facility.
From the outside, you could see the window of a small room lit only by an old, flickering fluorescent lightbulb - crack open. The surrounding area, previously silent, now hummed with a quiet, familiar melody. It almost sounded like someone was singing. Albeit, rather badly.
On an aged, tattered blue loveseat that the Scout had picked up from one of the many bases he’d been stationed in over the years (was it the Gorge? It’d been so long - he didn't exactly remember anymore), the Scout sang in a light, tipsy daze as he sloshed around an almost-empty can of beer in his right hand.
“Happy birthday to meeee…”
Although the dormitory bedroom was rather small, the old, cushioned sofa took up surprisingly little space. He hadn't exactly been given the chance to unpack yet, and the Scout's room felt rather empty. Spare for the mess of cardboard boxes, a small coffee table, chest drawer, and a naked spring bed that was pre-set for them at every location, the bare room felt rather spacious - until you factored in the absolutely massive lizard tank, of course.
As per routine at this point, Srgt. Yellow’s ‘Super Special Luxury Tank 1000’ came with the Scout's luggage, and had been unpacked ahead of anything else. Sitting along the top of a dusty dresser, the transparent container was an unmistakable behemoth of a home environment that Scout had been building on for his beloved little friend, ever since he could afford to get the parts for it. Sleeping contentedly on top of a warm rock inside of her meticulously temperature and humidity-controlled containment, the Western Banded Gecko was still very much healthy and happy, being cared for as a well-loved pet by the Scout.
Unbeknownst to the small lizard, the simple joy of being cared for was a sort of happiness that Scout could only wish to experience. It probably didn't help his already rather sour mood at the moment to be jealous of a damn lizard - but he wasn't exactly in the best of moods since the day began, either.
It was already well into night by the time they were able to finally settle into the new base. After flying in from across the continent (they were based in the Coldfront last - that place was boring as hell), Scout was already feeling pretty damn depressed in this new location.
Staring blankly at the multitude of empty beer cans rolling atop a makeshift tabletop (two cardboard boxes, aligned side-by-side), and the remains of what once was a bucket of fried chicken (now just a crumpled heap of cardboard); Scout downed what little alcohol he had left.
He already knew he was going to despise the new place, right from the minute he heard where it was located. A small base, smack-dab in the middle of a desert; nothing in the vicinity, but a small coal town bordering the surrounding area.
He hated the desert. Especially the dry environment's cold, barren nights. The biting chill in the atmosphere and the pale moonlight that filtered in through the windows during clear skies were the worst. It reminded him of some things - things he would rather not think about. Thoughts, memories and feelings that he would love to just leave in the dust.
The nights in the desert were always the loneliest.
“Happy birthday, dear Jerryyyyy…”
The BLU Scout slurred his words as he continued to sing, just a little off-tune. Just enough to be annoying.
“...Scout.” The Sniper mumbled in mild irritation.
Scout only chuckled quietly in response.
On top of a naked bed mattress, the Sniper sat with crossed legs, perched by the window of the Scout's dormitory bedroom. Looking out through a small crevice he had opened in the window, Sniper scanned the horizon with his old and trusty binoculars. Up until this point, he had yet to turn to face the Scout. For at least the last half-hour, the Sniper had been silently observing the barren, sandy wasteland that lay just outside the base.
Needless to say, Scout was getting bored.
“Happy birthday tooooo…”
“Scout.” The Sniper grunted, once again. “Shut up. It's not even your bloody birthday.”
The Scout rolled his eyes dramatically in a show of playful exasperation. “Well excuse you, Mister Mun-dee -” Scout dragged his vowels out as he spoke, enjoying the scowl that planted itself immediately on the Sniper's face. “It was my birthday two days ago. Just so you know. I ain't exactly off the mark here - and at least I remember the day my best friend gets another step closer to becoming a fuckin’ fogie.” He finished with a smirk.
“Ugh. Look - I'm sorry I forgot, ok?” The Sniper sighed as he finally turned to look back at the Scout. “Also do not pronounce my name like that.” He said pointedly. “It's annoying - somehow even more than your bloody sob of an existence, ya stupid wanka’.” The Sniper deadpanned, his voice as flat as he could make it.
The younger man only grinned in response. “Aww, love ya too, Mundy-baby.” He winked as he threw a kiss in his direction.
The Sniper snorted. There was a pause of silence between them, and before they knew it, they were both cackling. Loudly.
“...Christ.” The Sniper managed to wheeze out after the sudden bout of laughter. After wiping a small tear from under the shades he always wore, even at night - Sniper re-adjusted his lenses and returned (rather quickly) to his usual, monotonous expression. “Wait - how old are you supposed to be, actually?”
Scout, in the midst of opening up yet another can (he’d picked up two six-packs for this occasion before recalling that the Sniper didn't even drink ), froze as he turned again to look at the Sniper.
“Snipes… Seriously?” He wrinkled his nose as he paused, taking a minute to glare disapprovingly at his friend before resuming to pick at the can’s lid. “We’ve known each other for like - what, the last five years at this point? Almost six, maybe?” Scout proceeded to gulp down his fifth beer of the night. “C’mon man - there's no way you don't know something as basic as my age by now. You’re practically my ‘brother from another mother’, right? My ‘cuz with a buzz’? My ‘homicidal wanka in crime’? ” He snorted.
“Oh piss off,” The Sniper motioned dismissively at the Scout as he raised his binoculars and went right back to spying out the window. “...It is true that I don't know your age though, mate. You haven't exactly told me.” He said quietly.
“Damn.” The Scout returned lamely as he finished up his fifth can. He was definitely starting to feel a bit woozy. “Guess I don't really say shit about myself, huh.”
“Nah mate.” The Sniper responded gruffly. “Ya really don't.”
Briefly turning to the younger man, the Sniper asked again. “So how old did you beco-” He caught himself as he noticed Scout glaring at him in silence. “Er…how old are you supposed to be?” He shifted uncomfortably.
The Scout heaved a heavy sigh, as he set the sixth can in his hand (still unopened) back onto the makeshift table. “...I just turned 28, this year.” He clasped his hands together as he pried his gaze away from the Sniper's. “I’m 28 now. Or at least - I should be. You know how it is.” There was an awkward silence, and suddenly, the conversation didn't feel so fun anymore.
When the members of BLU (and most likely RED, for that matter) first enlisted as hired mercenaries, there was a collection of clauses in the fine text of a contract that every mercenary was required to sign. Although just a small detail - barely a footnote within a massive stack of 104 sheets of paper - it was something they had to consent to, in order to get the job.
In hindsight, it should have been obvious that there would be some glaring caveat to landing such a sweet gig. But looking back on it, not even the knowledge of this would have likely stopped any one of them from accepting that invitation on the spot. Every mercenary who entered this god-forsaken job was either desperate enough to accept this already shady offer; or obviously didn't care about their own lives enough - to even consider the idea of reintegrating back into society.
Just three small clauses on a contract. Three tiny lines on a massive mound of paper. Yet somehow, that was all it took - to stop anybody from ever being able to leave.
Scout remembered what was written down on that paper, word by word. At this point, he was certain that pretty much everyone else did, too.
…As long as you are under active employment, you agree to accept the following:
- You must remain bound to your station. Any and every form of prolonged, unregistered ‘leave’ beyond the vicinity of the control area will be penalized accordingly.
- You give consent to your body (including all organs and parts) being modified, removed, or replaced - dead or alive.
- Your physical attributes and capabilities are to meet aforementioned position-specific requirements; refer to page 57, clause 1587a. Any attempt at deviation from these standards will be met with severe penalties - including forceful reformatting as well as state restoration.
Needless to say - the meaning behind those three rules ( especially the last one) wouldn't become apparent, until much later down the line.
Scout sighed. He hated even thinking about this.
~oOo~
It had been about four years by now, since the line of no return had been crossed. Barely a year into employment - but Scout could still recall that damn weekend like it was yesterday.
It happened just a few months after a certain incident with the RED Scout - and his own team’s Medic. Another mess of things he’d rather not remember.
The BLU Medic had already become rather distant, by then. Although the stoic doctor had always been quiet, keeping to himself and his infirmary office when he could; nobody in the team ever recognized the man as someone cold, or indifferent to others.
Not until that Friday, at least.
It was the Soldier who was the first to go that day. Summoned by Miss Pauling over loudspeakers set within the BLU base’s rec room; Scout recalled noting that it was rather rare for the mercs to be called out individually like this, especially during unexpected periods of ceasefire.
The location they were in - unanimously nicknamed the ‘Sawmill’ by the rest of the mercs - was caught under a system of large cyclones at the time, during which a brief ceasefire was announced. Due to the severity of the conditions outside, none of the mercenaries were able to even step foot out of the base that day, whether they liked it or not.
He remembered lounging around the commons when it happened, unwillingly sharing his stock of comic books with the Pyro and Soldier. As it turns out - he wasn't the only avid enjoyer of true American literature, as the Soldier would put it. Pyro was actually the first merc to find out about his secret stash of books; and it probably wouldn't have been a big deal, if Pyro didn't recognize that a lot of the comics were first edition publications - in almost mint condition.
Needless to say, a base of operations filled with ‘highly dangerous’ hired mercenaries - was probably the last place Scout would expect to find a bunch of nerds like himself.
The team had recently moved into Sawmill, after a long and tedious (not to mention turbulent) stint in the Badlands. Even before they’d moved out of the desert base, Scout's relationship with the rest of his team had been deepening at a rather rapid pace. Following some rather unfortunate events that happened prior, the members of the BLU team had made it a habit to check up on each other, and keep every member of the team in the same loop.
At least - everyone who wanted to be in the loop.
Ever since the incident with RED, the BLU Medic had adamantly refused to be included in any group conversation - and declined any form of emotional support, or attempt at socialization from the team. Although worry and sympathy surrounded the man, there was nothing anybody else could do. Especially if he didn't want the help.
It was only a matter of time before the Medic had isolated himself from the rest of the team - completely.
By the time they moved into the Sawmill, the Medic’s solitary routine had become pretty much set in stone. Quietly excusing himself after battle, Medic slipped away from the others as quickly as he could - refusing to participate in the mess hall dinners, or any social events that required him to remain in the presence of more than one person at a time. As the weeks went on, the nine plates on the common room dinner table turned to eight - and Medic's favorite spot on the long table was forgotten. Although Scout knew he wasn't the only one who still worried for the Medic - he sometimes had to stop and wonder if anybody else noticed as the man’s presence seemed to quietly fade away. Slowly but surely, it felt as if the Medic was disappearing from the rest of the team's daily lives; erasing any traces of his existence within the base - like a ghost.
Like he was never there at all.
“…Mmph?” The Pyro mumbled as they waved their gloved hand in front of the Scout's face, shadowing the comic page that he had been blankly staring at for the last 10 minutes. “Mmllo? Earph to Phcout?”
It was only after the masked Pyromaniac started snapping their fingers when Scout finally zoned back into reality. “What.” He snapped back at the Pyro in mild irritation.
“Mm.” The Pyro motioned towards a neatly stacked tower of comic books, meticulously arranged from the oldest issues on the bottom, to the latest issues on top. “Mmph-ph.” Pyro pointed at the comic Scout currently held in front of him, and exaggeratedly gestured at the lack of comics in their own, empty hands.
“...Don't tell me you’ve already read through every other book. There's like, eighty other volumes before this one. This is literally the newest edition. There’s no way you’ve actually read through all that already.” The Pyro only responded with a muffled harrumph, as they gestured at a cleanly stacked tower of comic books - and the other stack hiding perfectly in its shadow. They folded their arms triumphantly, looking at the Scout from underneath their mask with what Scout could only imagine was a shit-eating grin plastered onto their face.
Scout took a second to hold his tongue, before sighing in irritation. “...Aight, fine, fuck it. Ya win, I guess. I wasn't focusing too much on this anyways.” He closed the thin comic with as much care as he could (wouldn't want to crease a fresh issue), before handing it over to an expectantly waiting Pyro. It was around that moment when he heard the fuzzy crackle of a speaker overhead, as the sound of the intercom sparked into life - the second time that day.
“Scout, the Administrator's expecting you in the control room.” Miss Pauling’s familiar voice echoed throughout the sparsely occupied rec room. “First entrance to the left, base level 2 underground. You should know where to go. She's waiting for you there.” There was an audible clack as Miss Pauling cut communication, and the loudspeaker fell silent once again.
The Scout shook his head dismissively. “What is this? Roll-call day or sum’n?” He sighed as he reluctantly got off his spot on the battered rec room couch, tapping an irritated finger at his hip.
Briefly gesturing his goodbyes to Pyro - who responded with a half-hearted wave of their own, already knee-deep into the book handed to them - Scout muttered sourly under his breath. “What a great start to another fantastic day. With the way it's been going so far, I can already tell this weekend's gonna be shit.”
…In hindsight it was almost funny, how often his gut feeling was correct in times like these.
~oOo~
The overhead lights felt eerily dim as Scout made his way down the steps. Every base he’d been stationed in so far seemed to have at least one dilapidated and seemingly abandoned area or another. Creepy, dusty, and sometimes oddly damp locations that never failed to remind the Scout of some cheap slasher setup. Aged and forgotten, areas like these were a far-cry from the image of a ‘highly sophisticated war-base’ he was supposedly situated in.
It was unsettling, just to be on that floor. And although he couldn't exactly place why - this area specifically, filled him with an unspoken, heavy feeling of dread.
The second underground floor of the Sawmill base was dark, cold, and almost oppressively quiet. Only the squeaking sounds of his sneakers over the concrete staircase reverberated throughout the area; barely breaking through what would have otherwise been a deafening silence. The tense beating of his own heart filled his eardrums, and it took some nerves at first, to fully get down from the steps.
He'd been directed by Miss Pauling to go in through the first entrance on the left - but so far there weren't any doors in sight.
A ways away from the staircase leading to the floor above, and straight down to the end of the hallway, there was a single exposed opening - a sharp left turn. Beyond the corner he couldn't see much of anything within the heavy dark, but without any other entrances in sight, it wasn't hard to conclude that that was where he was expected to go.
Of course, he didn't bring a flashlight of any sort with him. Not expecting to need one, he didn't have anything to use as a light source, spare for the flickering, naked electrical lights that illuminated the steps leading back up.
At this point, he just wanted to get out of that floor. Steeling his wracked nerves with some deep breaths, he decided that his best course of action was to rip off the bandaid, and get this over with as quickly as he possibly could.
Hastily, but still steadily making his way towards the opening, he briefly readied himself as he turned the corner. It was only by the time he’d passed underneath the support beams leading into an almost pitch-dark room, when he noticed the presence of someone else there, right beside him.
It only took a second, maybe two. Someone lunged at him from the side as a damp cloth that smelled nauseatingly strong - some chemical scent that the Scout couldn't quite place - was forcefully pushed agsinst his mouth and nose. The Scout panicked as he flailed violently, but whoever was restraining him had an iron grip on the young man. It wasn't possible to escape.
Scout's screams muffled, and before he knew it - his already limited vision seemed to melt away. Within a rapidly fading consciousness, the last thing the Scout saw was a small, blinking red light attached to what felt like a cold - almost metallic hand.
~oOo~
“...I still can't believe he would do this to us.” Sniper sighed, a digruntled crease forming between his furrowed brows.
The Scout remained silent, idly swishing around what remained of the alcohol in his almost-empty beer can. He’d heard this from the others after the fact - that everyone else in the BLU team had apparently been subject to the same incident as he was. Every single merc had a story to tell regarding that horrible day.
At least… everyone except the Medic.
His head still bowed, the Scout massaged his temples. Everyone was of the same opinion - because everyone else experienced the same thing that day, it seemed. Although the others appeared to be rather certain of who was at fault here; the Scout wasn't entirely convinced that anyone had a full grasp on what exactly happened afterwards.
~oOo~
By the time Scout came to - the dark storm clouds had parted. A warm sunlight filtered in through dormitory windows as he lay awake in his own bed, dazed and confused about what had occured prior.
Only a small mechanical alarm beside his bed, crafted by none other than the Engineer himself, was any indicator of how much time had actually passed.
The clock displayed 10:38 am - Sunday.
Apparently, the Scout had been asleep since Friday; some time before noon.
When the members of the BLU team gathered to discuss what had happened at the mess hall after; Medic was the only one who did not show up. The witnessed events brought up by each of the team members, coupled with a lack of information regarding Medic's recent actions and uncertainty surrounding the Medic’s whereabouts during that entire day - made sure that any seeds of doubt against the Medic were firmly planted.
Something happened that day. Although, not a single member had a clear grasp of what exactly that could mean. Even if Medic had done something to them (this was the conclusion that most members had reached, by the end of the discussion) - it wasn't for certain if this ‘incident’ was something bad or good.
Unsure, and uneasy - cracks within the trust of what was once a fully cooperative, even warm team dynamic - started to form.
Still, circumstances remained relatively peaceful back then. But this tersely held peace didn't last for very long, and it was not soon after when things started to progress - for the worse.
Another out-of-bounds death occurred. Although this time it wasn't suicide - it was murder.
Under some rather unclear circumstances, the RED Pyro had attempted - and succeeded - in taking the life of the BLU Demoman. A ways away, but still near the vicinity of the Demo’s charred body, the RED Pyro was also found as parts of a corpse; its disfigured, mutilated remains splattered across the area.
Had this death been like any other case prior - Demoman’s death would have been final. It should have been.
But then the Demoman was brought back.
His memory of the incident still intact, he trembled as he took his first breaths, and looked to the rest of the team as he awoke - his only eye wide open.
“I…I should’nae be here.”
The Demoman went missing, barely six days later. In that same evening, he was announced dead. Out of bounds this time, as well.
The second time he was revived - the Demoman was immediately put into confinement. As the other members witnessed the once warm, sane man they used to know plead and beg for the release of death; that was when their worry, and sympathy for him turned to confusion, doubt - and fear.
Something odd was going on with him - something was wrong.
It was the RED Pyro who dragged him out, next. Breaking into the BLU base at night - the RED Pyro single-handedly slaughtered the entire team, and dragged the BLU Demoman outside of the control area. Once again, they were both found dead, this time in the same location, side-by-side.
On the day of the Demoman's third revival - a meeting was arranged by the Administrator. Every member of the BLU team was summoned into the common meeting hall, spare for the BLU Medic who was tasked to the Demoman's restoration.
Over the intercom, the Administrator briefly explained the ‘issue’; an error they had discovered while tampering with the Demoman's brain - specifically, his memories. To ensure his sanity would remain intact this time around, the BLU Demoman was to have his memories reformatted.
A different thought running through every merc’s mind - the assembled BLU team listened in shocked silence as the Administrator concluded her explanation over the loudspeaker.
“If you wish for this man to not break, you will not remind him of, or allow him to recall any of the incidents regarding the last two weeks.”
There was an uproar. The booming, intimidating voice of the Heavy, who had been silent up until this point; loudly protested in anger as he condemned the Administrator’s actions and threatened to destroy her - demanding to know what she had done to him for this to happen. What she had likely done to all of them, as well.
Amidst the chaos of holding the larger man back, and the voices of doubt raised by other members of the team - the Administrator merely chuckled as she replied.
“Oh boo-hoo. You can try to kill me, if you'd like. But you will do well to remember…” She paused theatrically, relishing in the apprehension and fear that the BLU team felt. “Individually, I know of all your backgrounds, and strengths - just as intimately as I know of your every weakness. Each of you have something or someone you love, outside of this combat zone - do you not?” The air around the team seemed to freeze to a stop.
“There are many experiences worse than death… but I can assure you, none compare to the pain of failure .” The Administrator sighed, the tone of her voice darkening. “A higher frequency of deviant activity begets harsher penalties. For all of you.” The room fell quiet. “If you do not wish to see your loved ones in pain - if you do not wish to fail the people you swore to protect - I suggest you continue doing what you all seem to love to do, here.”
“Play nice, and cooperate with your dear friends. ” She sneered. “But do be wary of your fellow colleague - a penalty caused by the misconduct of one, may quickly prove to become a penalty for all.”
~oOo~
As the years passed, and the people surrounding the team began to change with time - the effects of the Administrator's ordered procedures grew more and more obvious. As every person around the team aged, matured, and grew on without them - they remained the same.
As if the flow of time itself had stopped for only the members of BLU and RED; their bodies, their personalities, and their minds - every aspect of what made them who they were - refused change. And soon, the small things that once kept them human, no longer seemed to matter.
It's not like any of them had a life to go back to, at this point. With time, everything they once knew would fade away. And if nothing was ever going to change - if nothing they did would ever make a difference - what was the point in even trying?
Scout grit his teeth. “Snipes…” He sighed, thoroughly massaging his head as an oncoming headache insisted on sobering him up in the worst way possible. “Can we like, not talk about this right now.”
The Sniper briefly turned to look at the Scout before shrugging, as he returned to his vantage spot by the window. “...Eh, no point in mulling over the past, I s'pose.” He huffed. The room fell back into silence.
By the time Scout had opened up his seventh can that night, proceeding to chug the entire thing down in record time - the Sniper whistled, briefly shifting in position as he noticed a certain vehicle leaving the confines of the base.
“Speak of the devil.” He muttered. “That’s a blue beetle, innit. Medic’s car.” The Scout choked on his drink.
“Huh- what? Medic?” The Scout sputtered as he clumsily made his way to where Sniper was sitting. “Where’s he going at a time like this?” He questioned aloud as he plopped down beside his friend, pushing the grumbling man to the side as his gaze tracked the car, driving towards an empty horizon.
“Well don't get your bloody panties in a knot, Scout.” Sniper scowled as the almost overwhelming smell of a drunk Scout invaded his personal space. “Your little crush will be fine - mate’s probably just going out for a drink.” The Sniper wrinkled his nose. “...Something you’ve clearly had too much of.”
“Snipes.” Scout took another swig out of his can. “This ain't just a crush . Unlike certain Australian lizardmen in this room - my blood is warm, red, and flows with the passion of romance, baby.” Scout cackled obnoxiously as the Sniper cringed.
“... Seriously, though.” Scout's tone quieted as he averted his gaze from his onlooking friend. “I’m still not even sure of how I feel about the guy.” He paused, a finger tapping nervously at the surface of his can. “I don't know if this is love. I’m probably just bein’ weird about it or sum’n - probably. I just… I don't know man. I really don't.” The Scout took another sip of beer, letting his words trail away.
There was a small pause before the Sniper sighed, looking towards the ceiling as he briefly contemplated on how to respond. “...Fuck’in hell mate, might as well.” He muttered.
Reaching for the nearest unopened beer can, the Sniper - much to the Scout's surprise - opened the lid and took a swig of alcohol. Briefly making a face at the cheap beer’s unpleasant taste, he brought his can up to the Scout.
“Cheers, birthday boy.” The Sniper cracked a grin at the still-gaping Scout. “If I'm gonna have to sit through another one of your long and unwieldy spiels about your dear, beloved Medic - I might as well get some drinks in me.” The Scout's expression softened, and a quiet chuckle escaped the younger man's lips.
“Ya know what,” The Scout sighed as he softly clinked his own can to that of the Sniper's. “Life’s kinda shit, and relationships are rough , but…” Scout grinned in return.
“With a mate like you, even these damn desert nights don't seem too bad, sometimes.”