Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hardest part of joining RED so far had to have been trying to find a decent parking space. 

Sniper circled around the back of the Teufort base one more time, grumbling to himself. His van kicked up all sorts of dirt behind him as he drove, which would no doubt mean he’d have to hose it off again sooner rather than later. The big cloud of dust obscured the view of his mirrors. With a sigh, he slowed his van to a stop at a spot he figured would be good enough. That is until he had to move it again to hook up electricity and water.

He slipped into the cabin, mentally running over a list of things in his head. He had his uniform, his hat, his watch, and sunnies… That was all he needed, right? His eyes landed on his rifle where it lay thrown on his bed. The sight caused him to pause.

Was he supposed to bring that in today? Or should he wait until the first battle? He remembered there being mention of a locker where he was supposed to store his firearms on base, but he couldn’t remember if they mentioned anything else about it. 

Whatever , he thought as he picked it up and slung the strap over his shoulder, ain’t no harm in being prepared. 

As the weight of his gun sat on his shoulder and back, the reality of what he was doing seemed to finally sink in. God knows how long ago, just the thought of killing someone made his mouth water, and now he was going to be doing it five days a week with eight other blokes. If he hadn’t been constantly working on his self-control, this would be a much more dire situation. 

He firmly reminded himself of why he joined RED in the first place, using that to calm his already frayed nerves. It didn’t do much, but it was better than nothing. 

With a deep breath, he pushed open the doors of his camper and stepped out. 

For today, the base mostly just facilitated getting everything set up in preparation for the team’s first battle. Moving into a room, getting put into Respawn, and visiting the Medic were the main events for most of the mercenaries. Sniper, however, planned on only doing one of those things.

His van served as a precaution. He treaded thin ice just being there, he knew living on base with the rest of the mercenaries would be pushing it. The further away he stayed from everyone else the better.

Sniper wouldn’t be visiting the Medic even if he could find the infirmary in this maze called the RED base. If there was anyone that could find out about his… condition, it’d be him. That, and he really hated doctor’s offices. They always gave him the heebies as a kid, and that didn’t stop in his adulthood, much to his embarrassment. 

He found his way to Respawn with a bit of difficulty. Being accosted by the bloke who called himself ‘Soldier’ certainly didn’t help. Sniper was able to slip away from the guy, but only after swearing up and down that he was a red-blooded American. Bit of an odd fellow, but who was he to judge?

The door to the Respawn room looked just like any other. In fact, had the biggest guy Sniper’d possibly ever seen not walked right out of the room as he passed it, he definitely would’ve missed it. 

They just stared at each other for a moment, the door clicking shut behind the guy. He didn’t have much height on Sniper, he noticed, but just his biceps alone were probably the size of Sniper’s head. He had a straight nose, a bald head, and a deathly serious look on his face. This had to be the Heavy. Distantly, Sniper felt grateful that this mountain of a man was on his team, and not the other. 

“Here for Respawn chip?” the giant asked. Arms the size of tree trunks crossed over his chest. All he could do was nod silently at the question. Noting his accent, Sniper wondered if he had to swear his American-ness to the Soldier too. “Engineer is in there,” he turned his head slightly in the direction of the room he just walked out of. “Will get you sorted out.”

Unconsciously, his eyes drifted to the movement of the man’s neck as he spoke, then to the shifting of his muscles when he moved his arms. He felt his mouth water and repressed the images of blood and skin and bone threatening to overcome his mind with a bit of panic. He couldn’t stop his stomach from rumbling lowly, however.

The Heavy heard, and Sniper praised whatever higher power there was that blood could no longer rise to his cheeks. With a laugh, he clapped Sniper on the shoulder, his firm grip jostling him where he stood. “Will have dinner soon, too. Little man will not be hungry for very long.” 

This guy getting closer to him was not what Sniper needed, so with the most normal smile he could muster, he muttered some words of agreement and shuffled past him toward the door. He didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder as he slipped inside, but the thundering footsteps proceeding down the hall made Sniper assume it didn’t bother the Heavy. 

Inside Respawn looked much like the rest of the base; white concrete walls, white tile floors, and bright overhead lights. A couple of metal storage cabinets were lined up on the wall, branded with an ammunition logo and a first aid symbol. On the wall opposite the door Sniper just walked through, what looked to be a large garage shutter took up most of the space. In the back, the lockers where Sniper assumed the team’s weapons would go stood, with a bench laid in front of it.

Fiddling with a device in his hands, the man Sniper figured was the Engineer the Heavy mentioned sat on said bench. When Sniper stepped forward, the Engineer’s head snapped up, revealing a pair of goggles underneath the bright yellow hardhat, and a broad smile. 

“Well, hey there,” the Engineer greeted. “You just have a seat on this bench here and I’ll get y’all set up, alright?” 

This guy certainly wouldn’t have a problem with the Soldier, that was for sure. Sniper nodded and muttered an “Aces,” in acknowledgment. 

A couple of seconds later, the Engineer hopped up from his spot on the bench, the little machine he was messing with earlier in hand. He was shorter than the Heavy by a long way, but Sniper could tell that he wasn’t weak by any means. This time, he kept his eyes trained firmly on the Engineer’s goggles, lest his stomach gets any ideas again.

“Now, someone else tell you how this all works, or do you need me to run it by ya real quick?” As he spoke, the Engineer slid a collection of machines down to where Sniper sat. 

Eyeing them warily, Sniper answered, “Um. A quick summary’d be great, mate.” 

The Engineer grinned and began to recite an explanation with practiced fluency. Sniper nodded along, not really understanding much of the science jargon the Engineer threw in here and there, but attempting to anyway. 

It all sounded great until the Engineer said, “All that to say, this dohickey here will read your vitals, and when your heart stops you’ll end up right back here. That all sound good?”

Sniper’s stomach dropped. If his dread showed on his face, the Engineer made no notice of it. 

This was bad. This was really, really bad. He hadn’t even thought of how Respawn would work, just that he’d end up back at base after he died in battle. But given his circumstances, there was no way it’d work correctly. What if he died for good? Or got stuck in Respawn?

Not just that, but the Engineer would certainly see why it wasn’t working. It would be over for him in seconds. Of all the people to figure him out, he never thought it’d be some glorified mechanic. 

The Engineer got to gathering up the little machines, completely oblivious to Sniper’s inner turmoil. He held one of the machines out in front of him, something that looked to be a scanner with a large screen attached to it. 

“I hafta check your vitals now. Silly, I know, but it’s protocol. Gotta make sure you ain’t already dead, after all,” the Engineer laughed. 

Sniper didn’t think it was very funny. 

This, the Engineer noticed and cleared his throat with a bit of embarrassment. “Right, I’ll get goin’.” 

He held the scanner up to Sniper, and the longest seconds of his existence passed as the device beeped lowly. He held his breath as the machine whirred. If he could, he’d probably be sweating right then. 

 The friendly smile on the Engineer’s face was immediately replaced by one of confusion, visible even through his goggles. “...Well, that can’t be right…” he muttered, tapping the screen. He held it up to Sniper again, face turning even more confused when the screen showed the same results. 

Sniper realized belatedly that that level of confusion from the Engineer should warrant a bit of worry from anyone unless they already knew what he’d be looking at on his screen. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked with all the faux concern he could muster. 

The Engineer mumbled something and stepped back from Sniper. “It’s sayin’ here that you ain’t got no heartbeat, son. Thing never bugged like this before…” He messed with the screen some more, then reached over to a panel on the side of the machine and opened it up. 

Sniper let out a barely-audible sigh of relief. He thought it was a fault in the machine! Sniper might just get out of this after all. 

The Engineer messed with the device for a couple of seconds, then held it back up to Sniper. Once again, his vitals read the impossible. A couple of tense seconds passed as the Engineer stared unreadably at the screen. Then, he chuckled lightly, running a hand over the top of his hard hat. “Well then, Mr. Dead-Man, since this thing ain’t sortin’ itself out any time soon, I’ll just go ahead and set your Respawn Chip to monitor brain activity, alright? ‘Less you ain’t got anything goin’ on up there, either.” 

Sniper let himself laugh at the Engineer’s joke, though his body stayed tense. “Sounds good to me,” he said, trying to not let the relief slip into his voice too much. He watched as the Engineer moved back to where he had been sitting at first and pulled some more machines out of a small bag laying by the bench, including what looked like a small keyboard. It wasn’t long before the Engineer ambled back over.

He held the scanner up again, this time pointing it at Sniper’s head. When he ran the device, it beeped in the affirmative, finally letting Sniper relax. 

With what looked like an ear-piercing gun without the backing, the Engineer implanted the Respawn chip in the back of his neck. When Sniper didn’t flinch, the Engineer gave him a pat on the shoulder and said something about “taking it like a champ.” 

Finally, Sniper had the go-ahead to leave Respawn, something he was all too eager to do. 

“You visit the doc yet?” the Engineer asked him as he headed to the door. 

Sniper paused. Would it be better to lie or not here? “Nah, not yet,” he decided on saying. 

The Engineer chuckled. “Hell, I don’t blame you. Better to get it over and done with, though. Waitin’s half the agony.” When Sniper glanced over his shoulder at the man, he was reorganizing his assortment of devices and tools. 

“Right, I’ll have a go at it,” he lied and left Respawn. 

Sniper did not visit the Medic that day. Or the next day. 

In fact, he’d been in such a haste to get out of the base that he forgot to drop his rifle off at the lockers. He also didn’t attend the dinner that the Heavy told him about, but he felt less bad about that one. It’s not there’d be anything he ate there anyway. At least, not on the plates.

He pushes the thought of dinner from his mind as he watches the rest of the team arrive at the base. At some point, an old beat-up truck pulled out of a garage and disappeared down the road for about two hours. When it returned, Sniper watched as the Engineer, a skinny kid with a baseball cap, a man staggering like a drunkard, and a person clad in a red flame-retardant suit and a gas mask all filed out of the truck. The scene kinda reminded him of a clown car. 

Around the evening, a red sports car pulled in, fashionably late. When the man driving it got out, he looked exactly like how Sniper thought someone driving that type of car would look. Red suit, gloves, and mask, right down to the haughty way he held himself. Sniper reminded himself to steer clear of that one. 

As he watched the men (and that one in the gas mask. He wasn’t sure what that one was,) arrive on the base, the hunger he experienced the day before was all the more present. He could ignore it, he’d trained himself to be able to do so, but it was only a matter of time before he’d need to eat something. That’s all it ever was, just a matter of time. 

He had to pass through some run-down town on his way to the base, he’d just have to check if there was a cemetery there when the time came around. Getting worked up over it now was pointless, he told himself. Plus, he could push himself at least two more days before he’d actually have to go. Three, if things were dire. 

So, as the rest of the team settled into their rooms and finished up the final steps of joining RED, Sniper sat in his van reading some book he picked up a while ago but never started, and ignored the intermittent rumbling of his stomach. 

If Sniper could sweat, his clothes would be soaked through. 

His shaking hands grasped the strap of his rifle as he trudged towards the base, the sand and dirt crunching beneath the soles of his boots. The closer he got to the base, the louder the thoughts telling him how bad of an idea this was got. By the time his hand closed around the handle to the Respawn room, he could hardly hear the outside world over the torrent of his own mind. 

With a couple of steadying breaths, he pushed the door open and stepped in. 

The rest of the team stood scattered throughout the room, conversing with each other before the match. (Well, most of them were, anyway. The one in the suit and mask—the Spy, probably—was leaning against the wall with a cigarette in his hand, looking at everyone disdainfully.) He couldn’t hear his stomach rumble over the sound of the chattering mercenaries, but he could definitely feel it. Sniper recognized nearly everyone immediately as people he saw entering the base yesterday, except for one. 

The Medic—or at least, who Sniper assumed was the Medic, if the red crosses where his class logo sat were any indication—stood near the Heavy, gesturing animatedly with what Sniper recognized as the Medigun. His back was to Sniper, which made it easy to slip in undetected by him. Or, it was, until the Heavy placed a hand on the Medic’s shoulder and pointed Sniper out to him. 

Seeing this, Sniper tried his best to look incredibly busy with grabbing ammo at one of the lockers. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the Medic from marching over to him. 

“Ah, Herr Sniper!” the Medic greeted. With a sigh, Sniper looked up from his rifle. So much for looking busy. “I did not see you yesterday, may I ask why?” His smile was too big, too friendly, entirely off-putting.

Sniper floundered for a good excuse. Because you’ll know what I am. You’ll figure me out and I’ll be dead for good this time. “Sorry, mate, didn’t think it was mandatory,” he said with a shrug. Hopefully, it looked like he genuinely couldn’t be bothered enough to come in. 

The Medic laughed. “Of course it is! I cannot Ubercharge you if you do not allow me to put the Uber Valve in,” he said. He spoke with the same ease that someone would regard getting a haircut, not open-heart surgery. 

“Oh, come on, he’s the fricken’ sniper! Are ya really gonna be Uberin’ him anyway?” came a shout from the other side of Respawn. When the two of them looked for its origin, Sniper found the lanky kid with the baseball cap tossing a bat up and catching it idly. Beside him, the Engineer snickered. 

Sniper grinned. “Kid’s got a point,” he said with a laugh. That was probably the Scout, he just looked like he could run fast. The Scout smiled back at him until he realized that Sniper called him a kid, to which he looked like he was about to argue. 

He was cut off by the Medic looking over his glasses at him in a manner that reminded Sniper of how his Dad would look at him if he tried saying something smart. “He does not. I will still need to see you in my office, preferably once the day’s battle is over.” His smile had been replaced by a much more serious expression. If Sniper was frightened of people easily, he might’ve even been intimidated. 

“Sure, doc. I’ll see you around.” He would not be seeing him around. He wasn’t stepping foot in that office if he had anything to say about it. Sniper turned away from the Medic then, looking back to his gun as if he had something more to inspect on it. Thankfully, the Medic left it at that and returned to the Heavy’s side.

It wasn’t long after that for the Administrator’s voice to boom over the loudspeakers, warning the team of the start of the match. It was as though a flip was switched in the room; cheerful and friendly expressions turned grim, and even the so-far easy-going Engineer’s smile looked a little intimidating. 

As the Administrator began to count down from ten, the mercenaries readied for their first battle. A fresh wave of nerves washed over Sniper despite his best efforts to repress them. He steeled himself, gun in hand. It would be fine. He would be fine.

He didn’t have any other choice.

Sniper got used to this battlefield quickly. He found all sorts of different nests, at all different elevations and angles. He didn’t realize how much he missed this; the thrill of the hunt, the rush of pulling the trigger. But the best part of it all? The bodies went to respawn too quickly for him to see most of them, meaning that his hunger was only a low buzzing in the back of his mind, rather than an all-consuming need. 

The first time he saw the bodies fade into thin air he was a little freaked out, but after that, it felt like a bloody miracle. 

Since it’d been nearly five days (five days already?) since he last ate, his senses weren’t as sharp as they usually were, but that hardly meant he was slow. He got his fair share of kills, licking his lips each made someone’s head explode in a bloody mist. 

The only downside was that the enemy sniper acclimated to the battlefield just as quickly as he did, and had a knack for picking out Sniper’s nests. He couldn’t complain all too much, though, he sent the poor sod through Respawn more times than the guy did Sniper. 

Just as said enemy sniper’s head disappeared from his window in a cloud of red, Sniper let a low chuckle escape him. “I’m just gettin’ warmed up…” he muttered under his breath, almost unconsciously. He wasn’t sure when he picked up the habit, but as a sniper, it usually meant that no one was around to hear his little remarks. So, he figured it wasn’t something he desperately needed to break himself from doing. 

At least, no one was supposed to be around to hear him.

“Do you usually talk to yourself, or do you save that for when you’re shooting people out of windows?” 

Sniper whirled around, his hand flying to the kukri at his belt. Before he could fully turn to face the intruder, a knife stabbed roughly into his side, right in between his fourth and fifth ribs. His hands scrambled for purchase on the windowsill, not from any pain that the wound should’ve provided, but from the feeling of his lung being punctured by the blade. A ragged gasp forced its way from his throat as the man plunged the knife deeper into his side, his attacker’s other hand coming up to grip his neck. 

He reached for the knife in his side, having half a mind just to rip it out and use it to stab the man behind him. The grip on his neck was too strong for him to fight off, however, especially not when he was this weak. 

As quickly as it hit him, the knife tore from his side with a wet ripping sound. He sputtered as air entered his lungs through the wound rather than through his mouth. A rough shove and Sniper tumbled headfirst through the window in front of him. 

Sniper woke up gasping in Respawn, stumbling forward and just barely catching himself on the wall. 

He didn’t remember hitting the ground. All he could smell was cigarette smoke.

 He had very little time to dwell on that as a wave of nausea overtook him. If it felt like this every time he went through Respawn, he dreaded the rest of the battle. At least he had more incentive not to die. 

Sniper got a hold of himself after only a couple minutes of clinging to the wall, finding that the nausea subsided quickly. He ran back out into the fray and made up for the lost time easily. 

He found himself jumping at every slight noise he heard. That pissed him off. He gets killed once and suddenly he’s turned into a paranoid schizophrenic. Pathetic, really. 

Thankfully, he only encountered his previous attacker—whom he identified as the enemy Spy—once more during the match, that time with Sniper coming out on top. Just as the Spy did to him, Sniper hurled him out a window, partially for revenge, mostly because he didn’t know how long the corpse would linger. He didn’t want to risk it.

Much to the RED team’s excitement, RED took the win, but not without cutting it close. Despite the close call, the Engineer suggested a round of drinks where in order to celebrate their win—what he predicted would be the first of many. While the team laughed and cheered, Sniper slipped away unnoticed, retreating to the safety of his van. 

He laid back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling of the cabin as he thought. The mercenaries where told explicitly that they would only be permitted to leave the base on weekends, as there were no battles on Saturdays or Sundays. If Sniper wanted to take his van out to the cemetery, he’d have to wait four more days.

The loud rumbling of his stomach took him from his thoughts.

Okay, not happening. But what else could he do? Could he walk there? 

A quick check of his watch told him that it was only four o’clock. He traced the route in his mind, deliberating. If he left at seven, that would give it time to get dark before he got there, which meant that he could be back at around nine or ten... Was he really that hungry, though?

His stomach growled again, answering for him. 

What the hell? He could walk. 

By six, Sniper started to get antsy. He paced the cabin (or, at least as much as he could in the small space,) relentlessly, running over everything that could go wrong in his mind. He could be seen, he could be killed, he could attack someone. If he didn’t keep his nails short for that last reason, he would’ve bitten them down in his nervousness.

When three sharp raps sounded at his door, Sniper nearly jumped out of his skin. He snatched his hat up quickly, rather than try to tame his hair from the mess his fingers made from constantly running through it. With a deep breath, he opened the door warily, still trying to calm his alight nerves.

The man he found standing at his door did nothing to calm him. 

The Medic stood, back straight, arms folded behind his back, donning the same too-wide smile he wore earlier that day. “Hallo, Herr Sniper!” He looked as though he was standing in the middle of a laboratory, not outside a campervan in the middle of the desert. 

He was hungry and nervous, and then this guy showed up. That higher power he praised earlier was testing him. He revoked his praise. “What do you want?” he all but sneered. 

The Medic raised a pacifying hand. “No need for hostility. I was simply here to ask if you’d be joining us for dinner, as you’ve been very elusive for the past few days.”

Oh, he’d love dinner. Blood dripping down his chin, soaking into his shirt, the skin under his fingers, his teeth sinking into-

“‘M fine,” he muttered. His grip on the door handle caused his knuckles to turn white.

When did he get so hungry? Usually, he’d be able to last a lot longer than this. Five days used to be nothing for him. Was he letting his self-control slip? Damn it all.

“Well, if you change your mind, there’ll be some leftovers in the fridge. As long as Scout doesn’t get to them first,” he laughed. Sniper didn’t. He pushed up his glasses, his expression staying friendly. “And don’t forget, I’ll need to see you in my office sometime for your surgery.”

If the Medic had any more to say, Sniper didn’t hear it. The moment the door slammed in his face, he leaned heavily on the door with a sigh of relief. It wasn’t until he heard the crunching of dirt under boots moments later that he could actually relax, however. 

Forget leaving at seven, the moment Sniper was sure that the Medic was back inside the base he was setting off to that cemetery. 

Sniper gave himself an hour to get to the town. It took him around thirty minutes. 

The sun had just begun to set when he arrived, painting everything in a hazy orange glow. It might as well have been midnight, what with the absolute lack of people out and about. Sniper certainly wasn’t complaining. 

He pulled his hat down, regardless. If someone here recognized him and he was caught leaving base less than a week into his contract, he’d be done for. Hopefully, anyone who might spot him would just see the red uniform and leave it at that. 

The town didn’t have much in the way of buildings. A general shop here, a diner there, cracked sidewalks leading to more beat-up businesses that looked more like shacks than anything. His eyes scanned street signs eagerly, looking for anything that could point him in the right direction.

It wasn’t long before Sniper was glancing over his shoulders to make sure no one would watch him hop the little fence gating in the cemetery. Normally, he could do so easily, but having gone so long without eating made the action a bit more of a struggle. He landed on the other side with a huff, now hungrily observing the expanse of dirt and crosses before him. 

With a few quick strides, he dropped to his knees before one of these crosses and began to dig.

By the time he’d finished, his fingers were red and raw. If he could feel them, every touch of them would make him wince. But that was hardly his main concern. Especially not as a corpse slowly came into view. 

Just as he’d hoped, this town didn’t even bother digging deep graves. It made existence easier for him. 

Thankfully, the person he dug up didn’t seem to be too decomposed. He’d probably eat them anyway, but it’d be harder to stomach. 

Steady hands reached down into the grave. He braced a hand on their shoulder and one on their bicep, then pulled.

Riiiiiiiip. Crack. 

As he brought the dismembered limb to his face, he vaguely registered the scent of- was that lead? Damn it, did these corpses have lead poisoning? That was probably why they drank bottled water at the base. If he kept eating this, he’d be bloody brain-dead by the end of the month.

The realization didn’t stop him from bringing the limb to his mouth. He didn’t think it—or anything at that point— could’ve . 

Muscle and skin tore away from the bone easily. He chewed and swallowed greedily, his mind going blank with hunger. Wet tearing sounds occurred with every mouthful. At some point, blood had spattered onto his face and shirt. He gripped the arm in front of him with crushing force, more strength returning to him with every bite. He only gagged occasionally.

When he finally pulled the limb from his mouth, panting to catch his breath, his mind screamed at him for more. It would be so easy to lean down into the grave and tear the corpse’s throat out with his teeth, easier to take their other arm.

 He denied himself that, though. His contract kept him here for ten years, he had to ration this out. He didn’t know what he’d do if he ever ran out of food. He didn’t want to know. 

The arm was nothing more than bone adorned with shredded chunks of red. He placed it carefully back into the grave and began re-earthing the dug-up corpse. Once his hard work was undone, he untucked his shirt enough to use the bottom of it to wipe his face. Only a little blood dyed his shirt a darker shade of red. Maybe they were dead longer than he thought. 

He got to his feet, having to lean heavily on the cross to support himself while the feeling returned to his legs. Being knelt on them the entire time he ate certainly wasn’t doing his joints any favors. 

With another fleeting glance around, Sniper hopped the fence (an action made easier as the strength started to return to his limbs) and headed back to base. 

By the time he slipped into his van, unseen and unheard, the lights still shone brightly through the windows of the base. 

Sniper certainly wasn’t surprised a light nausea plagued him for the rest of the day. No doubt, it came from the corpse. He’d have to get used to it unless another food source just fell out of the sky. That mindset didn’t make it any less irritating, though. 

It didn’t affect his performance during battle, so he had that. If anything, his senses were sharper than they were before. Not even the Spy got many good hits on him—at least, no killing blows.

 Sniper found himself growing an affinity for pushing the BLU off tall buildings since that’s usually where he took up sniping when the Spy decided to ambush him. One time, the Spy managed to drag Sniper down with him as he fell, but he didn’t really like to think about that.

The only thing that made Sniper more nauseous than the lead-filled corpses he had to eat was the Medic. 

Every time he entered Respawn for the start of a match, he felt the Doctor’s eyes on him. He tried desperately to ignore him. 

Whenever he chanced a glance back at the bloke, he always found himself staring right back into his eyes. The Medic wouldn’t even look away when he’d get caught, either. He’d just offer a tight-lipped smile until Sniper broke eye contact first. Bloody creepy, is what it was. And that’s coming from Sniper , the one of the two that ate people. 

The Medic stopped asking him to stop by the infirmary, much to Sniper’s relief. He fully believed that the Medic would perform impromptu surgery on him during battle if he so much as called for healing. That, he wouldn’t put past the guy, if the way he overheard some of the other mercenaries talking about him served as any indication. Honestly, how do you accidentally sew a bird into someone’s chest?

The days that Sniper never felt the Medic’s eyes leave him were the days after he snuck out to eat, when rolling nausea had him swaying on his feet. Despite only eating once every five days (six, if he really tried,) it seemed as though the symptoms mounted each time. One time, stepping off to the side to empty his stomach while the battle raged meant giving the enemy Sniper a couple of free headshots. Another time, a splitting headache kept him from killing the enemy Scout capping their point. 

It irritated him to no end. 

Every now and then, the Medic would fall into step beside him, asking if he felt alright. Every time, Sniper would mutter something snappy and dismissive at him. Part of him knew the guy was just doing his job, the other part of him wondered why he couldn’t just leave Sniper alone while doing it. 

If the Medic suspected him of anything else besides a sour attitude, he didn’t say so. 

Sniper hoped it would stay that way. 

Chapter Text

“Wave goodbye to your head, wanker.”

The force of the shot had the enemy Demoman’s head jerking back, his body following suit. He slid down the wall, the bottle he held in his hand shattering against the floor. Next to him, the Soldier roared in anguish at his fallen ally, pointing his rocket launcher in the approximate direction the shot came from.

Sniper ducked out of view of the window, his back pressed firmly against the wall. The second he felt the building shake with the force of the rocket, he lept up and turned back to the window. He squeezed the trigger, a bullet planting itself in the Soldier’s chest. He got him again in the head for good measure. 

He grinned, a wry chuckle escaping him. That was, what, the fourth time he’s gotten the Soldier in half an hour? Didn’t the bloke know they were a bunch of professionals? 

Sniper noticed the rocket heading right for the window at the last second, throwing himself to the ground to protect himself from the blast. Damn, the Soldier probably got a better look at where he stood before Sniper got him with that second shot. 

As he rose to his feet and dusted himself off, he couldn’t find it in himself to wipe the grin off his face. 

All things considered, Sniper reckoned things were going pretty well. 

He’d managed to build up some more of the self-control that faltered on his arrival at RED, finding that he could push himself eight days without eating before things became dire. Today marked the seventh day, proud to find that the hunger still could be ignored. Maybe he’d try to make it to nine days this time. 

On top of that, It seemed that the longer he took between meals, the easier dealing with the effects of eating those corpses turned out to be. He wasn’t sure if someone could normally build up a tolerance to lead, but he hardly believed anything about him qualified as “normal.” 

With these newfound limits came the next challenge: being around his teammates. Even that didn’t go as horribly as Sniper thought it would. He dragged himself out of his van one night—the day after he ate, of course, he wasn’t that confident in his self-control yet—and into the base to find the entire team holed up in a room Sniper hadn’t even seen before playing one big game of poker. 

They invited him into the game eagerly and Sniper joined with the first nervousness that hadn’t stemmed from his hunger in a long time. That isn’t to say he won or even did well. The Spy even said he could read him better than he could the Scout. Despite the loss he took, he considered the whole ordeal to be a win in and of itself. 

After that, he started spending a bit more time on base. What started as an exercise in restraint turned into a genuine interest to get to know his teammates more, however that happened. 

He found that, out of all of them, he quite liked the Engineer the best. Certainly not to say that he didn’t like the others, no not at all. In fact, he found himself often in the company of the Scout, whose constant chattering ended up amusing Sniper more than annoying him, or the Pyro, who Sniper wasn’t entirely convinced was human. It could be the fact that it was always clad in that menacing suit, or simply just the ominous feeling surrounding it, but whenever he was getting awfully hungry it was the one he took to on account of never really seeing it as anything more than the gas mask. 

 Regardless, he always found the Engineer’s company to be the most preferable. What wasn’t to like about the friendly Texan, after all? He hated to say it, mostly because of how many times his BLU counterpart has proven to be a pain in Sniper’s side, but he even found himself enjoying being around the Spy. Sure, most of the words they spoke to each other were insults—the subjects of which ranged from the other’s personal hygiene to the general awfulness of the other’s face—but never with any real heat behind it. At least, Sniper’s weren’t. He could never be sure about the Spy, though. 

Even the Medic hadn’t been bothering him as much as he did that first week. Sniper’s whole aversion to the medical wing had become a bit of a joke among the mercenaries, which the Medic always just laughed along to. Even if the Engineer teasing him with a “Relax, Stretch. Can’t die on the operatin’ table if you’re already dead,” put him a bit on edge, it kept the Medic off his back for the time being. 

However, Sniper knew that if the Medic had any suspicions of what he really was, he would’ve done something already. That put him at ease, at least. 

The telltale sound of a Spy uncloaking snapped Sniper from his thoughts. The sound didn’t come from inside his building, that was for sure. Instead, it came from somewhere nearby on the battlefield below him. 

He swung his gun out a different window than before and scanned the warzone through the lens of his scope, looking for where the Spy might’ve shown up. When he found the masked man, he found the Engineer nearby, back turned to where the Spy crouched behind his dispenser as he worked on upgrading his sentry. 

Sniper waited for the Spy to emerge from behind his cover rather than go for a body shot, it was quicker that way.  As the Spy crept out of the shadow of the dispenser, knife in one hand and sapper in the other, Sniper lined his crosshairs up with his forehead and squeezed the trigger. 

The Spy crumpled to the floor, which paired with the sound of the gunshot caused the Engineer to spin around, wrench still clenched tightly in his fist. At the sight of the dead Spy at his feet, the Engineer looked up and around at the surrounding buildings, eventually spotting Sniper looking back at him over the scope of his rifle. The Engineer grinned and gave him a half-salute as a thank-you, which Sniper returned with a smile and a nod of his head. 

He’d have to find a new nest now, but he didn’t really mind. 

The rest of the fight proceeded similarly, with RED taking another win. Sniper knew it wouldn’t do to get cocky, but he really thought this would’ve been harder. Hell, he hadn’t even eaten recently and he was still sending BLU’s to the grave by the dozen. Maybe they needed to start taking notes. 

Sniper chuckled to himself at the idea as he dropped his gun off in his locker, making sure all his gear was tucked away safely. The rest of the team had already gone off to celebrate the winning streak, likely with more alcohol than one could safely consume. It was Thursday, though, so they’d only have one day to have to nurse a hangover—or alcohol poisoning— 

 through. 

He hadn’t realized that he wasn’t alone in Respawn until the sound of boots clicking against the tile filled the room. Sniper continued looking over his stuff as the noise halted beside him. He knew exactly what would be standing beside him when he looked over, so he wasn’t surprised that a quick glance yielded the sight of the Medic’s smiling face. 

With a sigh, he closed the longer, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary. “Yeah?” he grumbled. 

At Sniper’s tone, the friendly smile slipped off of the Medic’s face, replaced by something a bit more serious. He mimicked Sniper’s sigh with one of his own. “I think you know why I’m here.”

Sniper frowned. “I ain’t gettin’ the surgery, doc.” He shrugged and turned away, starting to head for the door. 

The Medic followed. “This is not just about the surgery, but your refusal to come to me at all. I am your doctor, you agreed to that when you signed your contract.” 

He ignored him, his grip on the door handle surprisingly strong considering how long it’s been since he’s eaten. If he just kept telling the Medic to piss off, he’d eventually take the hint and leave him the hell alone. 

“I know that you’re ill, Sniper.” Sniper paused. 

Bugger. Bugger , he thought he’d been doing so well! Managing the symptoms just started getting easier, where did he slip up?

The Medic continued, “Don’t try to deny it, I can tell.” He sighed again, the clicking of his boots telling Sniper he was stepping closer. “I mean, I can understand a fear of needles or an aversion to doctors, but, honestly! This is getting ridiculous!” He huffed in exasperation. 

When Sniper felt the Medic’s hand come to rest on his shoulder, he tensed instinctively. Air came out of his nose in small, panicked puffs. He didn’t dare look up at the Medic. He didn’t think he could move if he tried. 

“I can help you, but only if you’ll let me.” His voice was soft, like he was consoling a child. He might as well have been, with how Sniper stood frozen in front of him.

If he had a heartbeat, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything over its pounding. He sucked in another deep breath through his nose, exhaling shakily. He forced himself to move if only to shrug the Medic’s hand from his shoulder in a jerky motion.

“Don’t want your help,” he snapped resolutely before swinging the door open. 

A second of silence followed. “Fine then, have it your way,” spoken darkly by the Medic was the last thing Sniper heard before everything went dark. 

He groaned and blinked groggily, a bright overhead light blinding him as he came to. He squeezed his eyes shut immediately against the harsh light. He turned his head to the side after a second, taking note of the hard, cold surface he was lying on. The cold surface he could feel against his bare skin. Where the fuck was his shirt? Where the fuck was he?

Blinking his eyes open again tentatively, his gaze landed on the Medic’s back a couple feet away. 

Realization hit Sniper like a freight train. He’d been taken to the operating room. The Medic took him to the operating room.

Piss. 

He hummed a tune to himself and picked up a tool—a bonesaw— from the tray in front of him. When he tilted it a certain way, Sniper saw his reflection in the blade, wide-eyed and paler than usual. The Medic saw it too. 

He spun around, his bright smile looking far more sinister than it usually did. And that was saying something. 

“Ah, Herr Sniper! How happy I am to see you’ve finally joined us.” The Medic crossed the space in two quick strides, grabbing Sniper’s terrified face in his hand when he moved within arm’s reach. With his other hand, he flashed a small flashlight into Sniper’s eyes. “But, you should not be awake yet, it hasn’t even been twenty minutes,” he muttered, looking at Sniper closer. “I’ll have to raise the dosage next time.” 

“Doc, what-” Sniper’s tongue felt fat and numb in his mouth, making slurring out the words difficult before the Medic cut him off. 

“You didn’t want to comply, so I had to take matters into my own hands,” he explained with a smile. “I’m going to find out what’s been making you so ill, my friend. One way, or another.”

Sniper could do it, he realized. The Medic leaned close when he spoke to him, all it would take was for Sniper to push himself up slightly, and the Medic’s neck would be level with his teeth. He could show the Medic why he didn’t want to come there, he could show him why he’d been avoiding him for so long. 

He could show him what happened when he got hungry.

Sniper pushed himself onto his elbows, baring his teeth, but the Medic was stronger. He pushed him back down with such forced that the metal table underneath him rattled when his back made contact. With the wind thoroughly knocked out of him, Sniper scrambled to catch his breath through heaving gasps. 

Shit. Shitshitshit, he forgot how weak he got this long after eating. He was no match for the Medic in this state. 

“You can behave , or I will be forced to restrain you. Do you want me to do that?” He leaned closer still when he spoke, all traces of his earlier smile vanished. His expression was deathly serious. Sniper shook his head sharply, his chest still heaving. The Medic smiled at his response, retreating a step and straightening his back to rise to his full height above Sniper. “Good.” 

He turned and grabbed something off the tray behind him, and when the light reflected off the little tool and into Sniper’s eyes, he saw scalpel in the Medic’s hand. “Now, be still for me, bitte.” His tone matched the smug, evil grin he worse.

Sniper’s breathing was harsh and ragged as the scalpel drew closer towards his chest. He had to get out of there, he had to. The Medic would open him up, see his heart not beating in his chest, probably find something else wrong with him on the inside, and it would be over for Sniper. The Medic would figure him out. He’d kill him for good, no doubt. 

The scalpel descended further towards his chest. Mere centimeters separated his skin from the blade when his hand shot up and grabbed the Medic’s by the wrist. The Medic paused, which Sniper was grateful for since he wouldn’t have been able to hold off the knife if he hadn’t. 

“Wait-” he gasped. “Waitwaitwait-”

“Oh, what now ?” the Medic cried, looking wholly unamused. 

Think of something, think of something. There was no getting out of this, he already stalled long enough. 

An idea hit him. Would it be better to just tell him? That had to be better than the Medic finding out with his hands in his guts, surely. Not like he had any other choice. 

“I’m dead, doc.” 

The Medic leveled him with a flat look. “I never did find that joke funny.” 

The scalpel pressed closer. 

Sniper tried to flatten himself against the table to get away from it. His eyes widened in fear as he cried out a, “No- no, honest! Check my vitals, check ‘em! You’ll see, c’mon, I’m tellin’ the truth, swear it!” 

His desperate pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears for a long, dreadful second. Finally, the clattering of metal sounded as the Medic threw the knife back down onto the tray he took it from. “Fine! I will check, and then you will stop acting like a child ,” he spat. 

Sniper nodded frantically in agreement. Before the Medic turned to retrieve the right machines, he pulled two leather straps tightly over both of Sniper’s arms, tying him to the table. 

“Wha-”

“So you will not make this any harder than you already have,” the Medic ground out through gritted teeth. He thoroughly pissed the doctor off, and Sniper knew from watching what he did to enemies on the field just how dangerous that was. 

He turned around, sliding a large, rectangular machine on wheels over to the side of the table. The Medic roughly attached a couple wires tipped with stickers to his chest and neck, before flicking switches on the front of the machine. After twisting the knobs a bit, the monitor whirred to life.

The long, drawn out beeeeep of the flatline filled the room . Rage melted off the Medic’s face, replaced by shock, then confusion as he looked from the machine to Sniper, who laid breathing on his table, then back again. 

“I’m dead,” Sniper said again through shaking breaths. “Or, technically, undead.” 

“Undead? You mean-”

“Yeah, like in the movies. Hunger for human meat an’ all.”

The Medic remained silent for a long moment before he switched off the machine, coming to stand to the side of the operating table. His eyes raked over Sniper’s body as it lay before him, and Sniper suddenly felt very self conscious. 

He’d always been thin, something that he’d been bullied for growing up quite a bit, but his condition brought him to a new level of skinny. If it weren’t for the muscle that corded around his arms and body, he’d be nothing more that skin and bones. Even now, the Medic could likely count each of his ribs individually. 

The Medic’s eyes stopped their ascension up his body at his left arm, landing on the scarred patches of skin that closely resembled the pattern a human’s bite makes. Dark veins traveled outwards from the bite in jagged lines, fading out as they reached his hand and neck. 

Sniper looked away as the Medic observed him, feeling all too much like an insect under a magnifying glass. 

“I have a zombie on my operating table,” the doctor breathed after a long silence. Was that… Excitement he heard in his voice? 

Sniper wasn’t sure how he felt about that word. It made this whole thing sound like something out of a bad sci-fi novel, rather than something Sniper actually had to live with. Regardless, he nodded. When he glanced up, he saw- yup, there was excitement on his face as well. 

At least Sniper wasn’t getting dissected. He let out a sigh of relief for that.

“I have a zombie on my operating table!” The Medic cheered and clapped his hands, looking like a kid on christmas day. “This is a monumentous occasion! Oh, I need my notebook, where did I-?”

The Medic hurried around the infirmary, leaving the Sniper strapped to the table. He was restrained, shirtless, and exhausted from the narrowly escaped threat of permanent death. Not exactly the way he wanted to be spending his Thursday night. 

But, he couldn’t relax yet. He still lay strapped to an operating table, after all. 

When the Medic returned to his side, yellow notepad in hand, he barely let the Sniper get a word in edgewise between all his questions.

“That bite, is that what turned you? How often do you have to feed? Do you have a preference for what you like to eat, or just human meat in general? Can you eat regular food? Are there any other organs of yours that do not work? Have-” 

“Woah, woah, slow down, mate. Gimme a sec, will ya?” Sniper muttered, letting his head fall back against the table with a thud as he caught his breath. His mind raced in the silence that followed. He had no idea what he should do in this situation. Would it be better to lie about some things? He doubted that the Medic had other sources to fact-check him with… Sniper banished that thought with a huff. He was a bad liar, he’d only end up digging his own grave. 

Then again, he really didn’t trust this guy. Look where he brought him, for christ’s sake!

He glanced back at the Medic, who was watching him attentively with barely-restrained glee. Alright, he’d only tell the Medic information he asked for, he decided. That way, he can’t be accused of lying. 

Before he could open his mouth to answer, though, the Medic perked up as though he remembered something he’d forgotten. “Ah, wait, let me get these off you.” Deft fingers unhooked the leather straps tying Sniper’s arms to the table, the steadiness likely earned through years of wielding surgical tools. 

Sniper regarded the Medic wearily as he sat up slowly, rubbing at his previously-shackled wrists. If his confusion showed through his expression, the Medic took no note of it. Was this some sort of trap? “You untied me,” he said, phrasing it more as a question. The Medic simply nodded. “But ain’t you afraid I’m gonna…” he trailed off, not quite sure how to finish that statement.

“Attack me?” The Medic supplied, to which the Sniper mumbled his agreement. The Medic simply laughed. “Oh, Sniper. If you were going to hurt me you would have done it already, you’ve given me no reason to fear such a thing. Besides, you’re a supernatural creature, not a fairytale monster!” he said with amusement.

Sniper looked down at his hands, not quite sure how to respond. Not a monster. Did the Medic really believe that? Unlikely. Still, he muttered out a noncommittal, “Right,” in reply. 

The Medic stepped closer, a broad grin on his face as he pushed up his glasses. “Now, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I would be a fool if I did not utilize it to its fullest potential. Thus, I would like to make a deal with you,” he explained. His voice practically shook with excitement. 

Curious, Sniper nodded for the Medic to continue with a raised eyebrow. He proceeded another step, narrowing the distance between the two. “You allow me to run a couple tests every now and again, perhaps a few tame experiments, and I will see to it that you are fed. Regularly, without having to sneak off base to eat. I’m not sure if you eat enough to have formed a preference-” A gloved hand poked Sniper’s abdomen, causing him to flinch back with a scowl. “-but whatever it is that you prefer, I will provide.” 

Many thoughts crashed through Sniper’s mind. First off, the fact that the Medic knew he’d been sneaking off base to eat. Did he know about him digging up graves, too? Or did he think he went into town and killed? Maybe the motive behind his trips was a lucky guess, or maybe the Medic simply put two and two together. His lips turned to a frown at the thought of how sloppy he’d been.

Secondly, of all the terrible things that Sniper expected to happen, the Medic offering to keep him as a bloody science experiment didn’t even make top ten. What might be classified as “tame” to the Doctor usually ended up looking a lot like a surprise amputation, something Sniper realized after seeing his work on the field. He couldn’t be sure if this was actually worth it. 

Then again, the idea of eating something other than who-knows-how-old corpses made his mouth water. He hated thinking with his stomach instead of his head, but did he really have a choice here?

“...And what if I refuse?” he asked, just to be sure. 

“Then I would be forced to conduct my experiments through other means.” 

Regardless of the cheery smile on his face, the Medic’s tone said everything Sniper needed to know. He gulped.

Right. He definitely did not have a choice. 

“Fine, then. You have yourself a deal.”

The Medic laughed and clapped his hands together in glee, practically bouncing up and down. Sniper couldn’t help but feel as though he just made a deal with the devil. He doubted that being undead meant he had a soul to sell, but the comparison still stood. 

When a gloved hand began to gently push Sniper back to lay on the table by his shoulder, he simply raised an eyebrow in confusion at the doctor. He received a glee-filled grin in response.

“Experiment number one: how your body reacts to the Uber valve!” 

Sniper groaned in irritation, now horizontal on the table. “Ugh, you’re bloody joking!” He thought he just got out of this! 

He heard a chuckle from the Medic, who had set his notebook down on a nearby counter and retrieved his previously discarded scalpel. “Oh, no, my friend. I am incredibly serious,” he replied, waving the scalpel around as he spoke. “After all, this is very important information. I don’t even know how the Medigun will work on you!”

To be fair, that was partially Sniper’s fault, he realized with a grimace. He never called the Medic for aid during battle, nor did he visit the infirmary while he was off the clock. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure himself what would happen to him under the Medigun, but he always figured taking a quick trip through Respawn would be better than finding out. 

“Now, no squirming, or I will tie you up again,” the Medic chirped in a far too cheery tone for the situation. Sniper grumbled out a vague acknowledgement of the statement and watched as the blade descended further towards his chest. 

When the knife breached skin, Sniper predictably felt nothing. No pain, just a bit of pressure, barely noticeable, signalling him of the incision. When a request of, “Lay back for me, bitte,” came from the Medic, Sniper stopped craning his neck to stare at where dark, nearly blac, blood blossomed in the scalpel’s wake. 

The pressure began at the top of his left collar bone, continuing diagonally to the center of his chest, where another diagonal cut from the top of his right collar bone swiftly connected to it. From the point made at the center of his chest, the pressure stretched in a straight line down his abdomen and stopped just below his belly button.

The pin-point pressure of the knife disappeared, leaving a faint buzzing feeling around the cut. Although he kept his head leant back on the table, he turned his neck to watch the Doctor discard the bloody scalpel onto a nearby tray. 

“You have an impressively high pain tolerance,” the Medic commented idly, returning his focus back to the man on his operating table. 

Sniper turned his head back to stare up at the ceiling of the room, trying his best to ignore the hard fluorescent lights. “Nah, just don’t feel nothin’ no more,” he corrected. He could feel his skin being pulled back, the flaps laid against his sides, exposing his chest cavity to the air. If Sniper hadn’t been eating corpses as long as he had, he might’ve been a bit squeamish at the thought. 

The Medic giggled with excitement. “Is that so?” Sniper felt the hands on him pause for a moment. He had half a mind to lean up and tell the Doctor to get on with it, but he decided against that. The Medic clicked his tongue at something he saw inside him. Seconds later, Sniper felt his gloved hands inside him. That was a weird feeling. “I can multitask, so why don’t you answer some questions while I work, ja?” The Medic continued. 

Sniper nodded, grimacing when he felt fingers prod at his organs. “Hit me, doc.”

“When you sneak off base, which I’ve assumed you’ve been doing to feed, what exactly do you eat?”

A harsh cough was forced out of Sniper when the Doctor poked something inside him. He recovered quickly, but that didn’t stop him from craning his neck up to shoot a glare at the Medic, who simply smiled in return, before laying back down. “Corpses.”

“Recently deceased?”

“Nah, some of them were only ‘bout a month old, but most were there for more than five,” he answered, nearly shuddering at the reminder of the old corpses. He could always tell about how long it had been since the person he was eating died, usually by measuring how difficult it was for him to get through the meal. Ever the fresher bodies that had only been in the ground for a little over a month made his stomach churn, so the older meat was always a last-resort option. However, he found that he exhausted the cemetery’s stores of recent deaths rather quickly due to this preference, and sooner rather than later he had to turn to eating the old corpses. 

An unfond memory of one of those nights arose. He could suddenly smell the rot of the corpse, taste the too-soft flesh in his mouth, feel the way the limbs fell from the body with little resistance. The image of Sniper doubling over to vomit what meager helping he had managed to get down over his retching forced it’s way into his mind. He shook his head as if to physically banish the thought. 

He didn’t have to eat anything already dined on by insects yet, though. Maybe this deal would mean that it wouldn’t come to that. He might’ve been dead, but he still had standards. 

At the raised eyebrow his statement earned, he corrected, “There’s a cemetery-”

“Breathe in and hold it.” 

Sniper obliged, then continued when he was allowed to exhale, “-down in that town nearby. Ain’t no other place in walking distance.” 

The Medic nodded thoughtfully, pulling back from Sniper with his hands now occupied. Craning his neck up, Sniper realized with a start that the doctor held his heart in his hands. The organ itself was a darkened reddish-grey, unlike the vibrant shade often depicted in diagrams. Sniper, however, felt no different than when it was in his chest. Christ, that was weird. 

The Medic searched around intently, muttering something to himself in German. Suddenly, he seemed to find what he had been looking for, as he reached for a small device with a smile. In one hand he held Sniper’s heart, in the other he held the little machine, which had tiny metal prongs sticking out of one side of it and a knob on the other. With a practiced motion, the Medic stuck the metal prongs into his heart and twisted the knob at the top.

While the Sniper watched the Medic, the Medic watched Sniper’s heart attentively, like he was expecting something to happen. After a couple moments, the entirety of which Sniper’s heart remained exactly the same as it was, the Medic frowned and inspected the organ closer. 

“Odd,” he stated.

“Do I even wanna know what that means?” Sniper sighed. He was getting tired of all this. Right now what he really needed was a nice, long rest back in his van. 

The Medic hummed, observing his heart closer yet. “Well… The valve may not even work for you.” He pulled his heart off the device, then reattached it. When that still yielded no results, the Medic clicked his tongue. 

“So, this was all for nothin’?” If the Medic dragged him in here to give him a surprise surgery just to find squat he was gonna-

“Nein, of course not! This is a very important discovery! If the Uber Valve doesn’t work, then that begs the question of what the Medigun would do to you, since they operate very similarly.” He dropped Sniper’s heart back into his chest, none too gently. The organ must’ve hit his lung as it fell, if the way Sniper grunted as the air was knocked out of him was any indication. He shot a glare at the Medic for that one, who simply smiled apologetically in return. 

The Medic pulled Sniper’s skin back where it belonged and made quick work of stitching him up. Seconds after the Medic pulled away to discard the needle and thread, Sniper saw what he assumed to be a wall-mounted Medigun pointed at him.

“Do tell me if you feel anything… Out of the ordinary.”

Sniper nodded, and without further warning the Medic flipped the Medigun on. He watched the red beam he often saw on the battlefield float towards him, wafting over his skin within seconds. 

There was warmth on his skin wherever the healing rays touched, the incision on his chest becoming a numb sensation rather than the buzzing.

Then he felt his heart beat. 

“Bloodyfuckinhell-” he swore, lurching to the side involuntarily. Each beat of his heart felt loud enough to shatter his ear drums. His body shook with tremors, his fists clenching and unclenching as he struggled to keep himself supported on his elbow. Distantly, he heard an exclamation from the Medic, but he couldn’t hear much of it over the raging beating. 

As quick as it began, the pounding of his heart stopped when the Medigun was hastily flipped off. 

A rubbish bin appeared in front of Sniper’s face, and he vomited bile until his vision swam. 

Sniper would’ve slammed his camper door if he had the energy.

As he was, though, he simply shut it with a dull thud , stumbling through the cabin of his van. He only made it as far as his table, slumping down in the booth that wasn’t occupied with strewn-about clothes and weapons and throwing his hat down on the side that was. Sparing a glance at the ladder leading up to his lofted bed, he decided likely just end up crashing at the table. It’s not like he was gonna get back pain.

Who knew puking up nothing but stomach acid for almost an hour would really take it out of you?

After Sniper’s stomach finally stopped doing backflips back in the operating room, the Medic kept him there for even longer to make sure he wouldn’t be experiencing any more adverse effects of the Medigun. Sniper made the mistake of mentioning that he healed incredibly slowly—perhaps with a mention about the time he nicked himself with his kukri and it bled for a week—the Medic decided that he could not leave the infirmary until the incision had begun to heal at least a little bit, lest Sniper reopen the wound and bleed out (the Medic’s words, despite Sniper’s insistence that he couldnt bleed out.)

 With a bit of trial and error, they discovered that the Medigun on the lowest possible setting did, in fact, heal Sniper without starting his heart. It was slow and uncomfortably warm, but the Medic’s inspection of the cut did show that it was beginning to seal up. An hour later, the cut showed no more signs of healing, and the Medic simply released Sniper back to his van after he complained enough. 

Now, Sniper just had what would be a headache if he could feel pain. Did that count as a side effect?

He sighed and looked up from where he had his head pillowed on his arms, the movement causing his head to go light. When he looked up, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror on the front of his wardrobe’s door. 

Dark brown hair stuck up in all directions atop his head. Paired with his sunken in, dark-circle rimmed eyes, he nearly gave off the appearance of some cocaine-addicted hobo he’d find out on the streets in some of these big American cities. At least his sunnies—which the Medic returned, alongside his hat and shirt—helped dissuade the look. 

Not even bothering to fold them up, he took them off and set them on the table. Seconds later, his shirt followed, hitting the floor in a heap. 

The large cut followed the shape of a Y as it descended from his chest to his abdomen. The skin was tinted pink around the stitches, a contrast to the rest of his pale, almost grey skin. He frowned. Lightly, he ran a finger over the sutures, feeling the thread and where it pulled his skin taut. He could remember when something like this would be sore. When his gaze returned to his face, he unconsciously scowling at himself. He tried in vain to relax his expression.

He stood suddenly, the action causing him to nearly topple over. His hand flew out, steadying himself with a grip on the ladder that led up to his bed. Once he could turn his head again, he shifted closer to the ladder and began to climb. 

Exhaustion be damned, he wasn’t gonna sleep in view of that mirror. 

When he eventually flopped onto his bed, half-curled into the fetal position just to fit, he was out of breath and feeling entirely pathetic. Despite the fatigue that plagued him, he laid in bed awake for nearly an hour longer. His heartbeat, though nonexistent now, raged loud in his ears. He swore he could feel the valve attached to his heart.

When he slept, he saw the Medic’s sadistic smile behind his eyes. 

The next morning, the mirror on his wardrobe was taken down by the time he went out to start the day’s battle. 

Chapter Text

BANG! Crr-cchk. 

The mid-air Soldier hurdled toward the ground, landing with a sickening crack .

BANG! Crr-cchk.

The bullet crashed through the Pyro’s left lens, shattering it. Its flamethrower dropped out of its hands as it crumpled to the floor. The RED Scout it was chasing gave a loud holler and cheered at the sight of his fallen pursuer. 

BANG! Crr-cchk.

The RED intelligence flew out of the BLU Scout’s grasp, sliding along the wooden flooring of the middle bridge connecting the two bases. It skidded to a stop. BLUs scrambled to retrieve the briefcase; REDs rushed to defend it. The BLU Demo jogged up to finish what the Scout started. His body landed a foot away from the briefcase. 

Each sound bore into Sniper’s skull like a drill. The sharp movements of the reload, the distortion of the world through his scope, the resistance of the trigger. Usually, these details would excite him, would remind him of the thrill of the hunt. Today, each monotonous task numbed his brain. He couldn’t focus. His missed shots were starting to outnumber his hits.

And, above all, he was hungry. 

Last night’s surgery not only left him with a limited range of mobility due to not wanting to reopen his stitches, but it left his stomach noticeably empty. His eight days of starvation were finally starting to catch up to him, likely because of some other side effect of the Medigun. That’s something he needed to tell the Medic, right?
Sniper frowned and shook his head. No, he wouldn’t be going back there unless he had to. He’d honor their deal, he was a man of his word, after all, but he wouldn’t be making any unnecessary trips. The Medic wasn’t exactly in his good standing.

His brooding was cut short when he suddenly stumbled forward through the window with a yell, the pressure of firm hands on his back. A whiff of cigarette smoke and the ringing of snorting laughter betrayed exactly who his attacker was as he hit the ground.

But he didn’t die. 

Instead, he laid on his back far beneath the building he had previously sniped out of. His arms were sprawled out around him, his left leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He couldn’t feel his right leg at all. If it weren’t for the labored groans and gasps he uttered from the wind being knocked out of him so forcefully, he would’ve looked well on his way to Respawn. His muscles twitched and spasmed as he lay helpless in the dirt. 

He couldn’t call for the Medic; that much was evident. Without the Medigun, all the Medic could do for him was give him the relief of a mercy kill. Plus, Sniper’s pride was too strong to ever call the bloke anyway. 

He’d just have to wait until he caught his breath to see if he could move again. That was unless the fall happened to paralyze him. Could he be paralyzed? He never had the opportunity to test it out. With a labored sigh, he realized that it’d likely be an enemy that he’d be waiting for to stumble across him to put an end to his writhing. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. 

“Aw, you poor fella.” 

Old work boots thumping across the dirt filled Sniper’s ears. When he eventually turned his neck, he got a sideways view of the BLU Engineer as he ambled over to him, a thumb hooked lazily into a belt loop while the other hand held securely to the barrel of his shotgun. 

He looked like his RED counterpart in every way. Even their voices had the same deep, southern drawl. However, there were slight differences. This Engineer missed the pinky and ring finger on his left hand and had a line of scarred skin stretching from his right cheek up to his goggles. 

The muzzle of the gun tapped Sniper’s head, tilting it back up. He must’ve lost his shades in the fall with the way the sun overhead beat down into his eyes so brightly. The Engineer leaned over him, obscuring the sun and becoming nothing more than a black silhouette against the light. 

“Somebody gone and done you in, huh?” the BLU hummed, no hint of concern in his voice. If anything, it sounded more like amusement. He crouched over Sniper, bracing his hands on his knees. Sniper wanted to curse and spit at him, but all he could do at the moment was gasp and wheeze. 

The Engineer looked up, finding where Sniper’d fallen from with a smile. “Reckon that there was Spy’s work,” he laughed. “He sure does get a kick outta messin’ with you. Hell, if I know why, though.” 

He was so close. Sniper could sit up, grab him by the shoulders, and sink his teeth into his neck. He could tear off his remaining fingers and suck the meat off the bone. He probably would’ve if he could’ve moved his arms, that is. 

So he could be paralyzed. He’d make a mental note of that for the Medic, just in case. 

He snarled and bared his teeth at the Engineer, who simply shook his head with a smile. “Alright, alright, quit your whinin’. I’ll put ya down now,” he hummed. Rising to his full height—which usually was quite measly but now towered over Sniper—he cocked his shotgun and placed the barrel on Sniper’s forehead. Sniper stared at the BLU, scowling all the while.

He didn’t shoot.

“Could I get a ‘please?’”

Sniper made no move to speak. The Engineer sighed.

“I never get to have any fun ‘round here,” he grumbled.

Then Sniper jerked awake in Respawn. He caught himself on the wall, nearly toppling over at the sudden sensation of being able to feel all his limbs again. He was thankful for the paralysis in the end, though; he couldn’t imagine that eating the Engineer mid-battle would go over well with the Administration.

The thought of the BLU Engineer put a sour taste in his mouth. For all his talk about despising his team’s Medic, the entirety of the BLU team garnered a much stronger hatred from Sniper. Only in part of the fact that they were the enemy team, since most of Sniper’s distaste for them stemmed from personal interactions. 

It might’ve been unprofessional to form personal grudges, but these guys were real assholes. 

From a distance, the members of the opposing classes looked nearly identical; the RED Scout’s goofy grin when telling a story was the same one the BLU wore when pumping enemies full of buckshot, the BLU Spy’s nose had been broken in the same spot at the RED’s, and the Heavy’s had the same collection of scars on their arms. Even their voices and mannerisms were similar. Sniper, however, found differences that made his hatred for the BLUs run even deeper.

The Engineer, for example, was far meaner than Sniper’s own. While the RED had his own mean streak that came out when pesky Scouts or Pyros wouldn’t leave him alone, that was nothing compared to the BLU. Sniper once scanned the battlefield through his scope, only to find the RED Spy pulled off to the side of the battlefield, tied to the base of one of the Engineer’s sentries. Positioned in such a way that Sniper nearly didn’t notice the bound man, Sniper almost headshot the man and moved on. But before he could pull the trigger, he saw a flash of red behind the blue metal. 

Curious, he focused his sights on the machine and watched the unmistakable shape of the Spy’s leg kick out in pain when the sentry started up again to fire at some REDs getting too close. Sniper realized in horror that the smoke coming off the machine was not something he’d just failed to notice before, but the result of the sentry overheating against the Spy’s body and burning through cloth and possibly skin. 

He made quick work of both the Engineer and sentry. His suspicions were confirmed when the machine fell away to reveal charred skin and a tattered suit. Thankfully, the Medic rushed to the Spy’s aid soon thereafter, patching him back up for the fight. Somehow, the Medigun mended his clothes as well. Sniper decided he didn’t care enough to ask about that. 

Despite the Engineer’s cruelness and the rest of the team’s general awfulness, he knew adamantly that he hated the BLU Spy the most. 

Unlike his own team’s Spy, who worked cleanly, quickly, and quietly, the BLU Spy liked to draw things out. He was dramatic, pretentious, and, above all, bloody annoying . 

Sometimes, he let his cigarette burn as he snuck into Sniper’s nests, just so Sniper would smell the smoke and know he was there. Other times, he’d signal his arrival in ways that could easily be passed off as paranoia: a creaking floorboard here, a breeze of wind there, something that sounded a lot like breathing but was probably just the wind because Sniper was just paranoid and it was nothing, and if he slashed his kukri through nothing then that would be admitting that the Spy was getting to him and he wasn’t . 

There was even one match where the Spy decided to goad him into trying to kill him while he was cloaked. As it turns out, wildly slashing his knife wasn’t as effective as Sniper thought it’d be. 

A sudden voice echoed through Respawn.

Sniper jumped, brought back to reality as he glanced around the room in search of the source of the noise. To his left stood the RED Engineer, holding a pacifying hand up while the other held tight to his toolbox. Sniper ignored the way his stomach grumbled, ignored the parts of his mind saying you couldn’t get the other Engineer you can get this one you’re alone he’s shorter than you you can pin him eat him eat him eat-

The Engineer looked at him expectantly, like he asked a question. “Uh, wh- huh?” Sniper blurted eloquently. 

The Engineer chuckled. “I just asked if you had a bad death out there, Slim. You’ve been standing there scowling for nearly three minutes now.”

Sniper relaxed his face, slightly embarrassed to have been caught just standing around. “Yeah, guess you could say that. Had me a run-in with the Spy an’ Engineer, is all,” he replied. He shrugged his gun off his shoulder and stepped forward towards the open door to the battlefield. 

“Aw, them bastards. Well, I don’t blame you, then,” the Engineer grumbled. It was no secret among the team that the two Engineers had some sort of history, the history itself, however, remained shrouded in mystery. There was no doubt the Spy knew about it either, but he always refused to enlighten the team when asked. And they asked—a lot.

Sniper huffed through his nose in place of a laugh, eager to get back into battle. As much as he enjoyed the Engineer’s company, he wasn’t entirely confident in his self-control in his current state. He’d really hate to ruin whatever companionship they had going because he lost his mind and ate the bloke. Something told him that might be a friendship-breaker. 

“Wait, Stretch, before you go,” the Engineer called out just as Sniper was about to step outside. He turned to the shorter man as he stepped up to him. The firm weight of a comforting hand found itself on the side of Sniper’s arm. Too close. “You doin’ alright? You’ve been sorta, well– now, this ain’t to be rude, but you’ve been a bit off your game today.”

If the Engineer shed his goggles, Sniper believed he’d find his expression full of concern. He was a real nice guy, that was for sure, but he was going to be a real nice half-eaten corpse if Sniper didn’t get out of there. “The Doctor just gave me that surgery he was always talkin’ about. ‘M still a bit sore,” he mumbled. His hand subconsciously touched his chest. Not exactly a lie, but not the entire reason either.

The worry eased off the Engineer’s face, replaced by good-natured amusement. “S’at so? Didn’t use the Medigun on your sorry hide for makin’ him wait so long, huh? Can’t say I blame the guy,” he laughed and clapped Sniper on the arm heartily. “If that’s the case, I’ve wasted enough a’ your time. I’ll see ya out there.” 

With a grin, the Engineer hefted the toolbox onto his shoulder and jogged out of Respawn, whistling to himself. Sniper followed, turning the opposite way to get into a good perch. His stomach voiced its disagreement at the loss of the meal. He ignored it. 

Sniper shot the Heavy in the shoulder. He shot the Demo in the leg. The Medic took a bullet to the stomach. The enemy Sniper took one to the chest. No headshots. No quick deaths. 

To anyone else, it looked as though he was purposefully only wounding the enemies, being cruel for cruelness’ sake. But Sniper knew the truth. He couldn’t hit a headshot right now if he tried. He felt like a fraud. 

“Wow. You suck at this.” 

Well, then, he guessed he wasn’t the only one that knew of his ineptitude.

Sniper whirled around, pointing his rifle at the source of the voice. A mere second away from pulling the trigger, Siper realized that the person on the other end of his barrel was not, in fact, an enemy but instead his team’s Scout. “Oh,” he mumbled, lowering his gun slightly. “‘S just you.”

When the barrel eased away from the Scout’s chest, he relaxed slightly. “Well, duh, it’s just me,” the kid snarked with a roll of his eyes. Must be in a bad mood or something, the Sniper thought. He had an attitude sometimes, but he usually reserved that for the enemy team. “Ran up here to grab a Medkit, but watchin’ you miss every shot’s a lot more fun. You do know that Medic was standin’ still, right?” 

Sniper scowled in return. To be fair, the shots he pulled off before the Spy pushed him out of the window was the best he did all day. But he still wasn’t in the mood for this. He came up there to snipe, not to get lectured by some kid half his age, for Christ’s sake. He turned around and lifted the scope to his eye, though he could hardly focus on the battlefield. He wasn’t hungry he wasn’t hungry he’d eat later for the love of God do not eat Scout. 

“Can’t focus with you backseat snipin’, now can I?” he grumbled, firing off a shot. It missed the Soldier’s shoulder by a least six inches. It might as well have been a mile. 

The Scout snorted, “Dude, maybe you should let me. It’s not like you’re hittin’ anything!” The Scout's raucous laughter filled the small room, only making Sniper’s irritation deepen. After a second, his outburst died down into muted chuckling every time Sniper missed an enemy. 

Sniper felt the presence of the Scout move closer, stepping behind him so he could just barely peer over his shoulder to watch as he aimed. That was a dangerous game the kid was playing, whether he knew it or not. He must’ve been trying to stir up something about Sniper, seeing as how it’d be easier to watch from beside him rather than behind. 

Behind Sniper. Where the spot between his shoulder blades lay unobstructed and easily in reach, the space on his back that he heard many of his teammates complaining about being stabbed in.

“What did you say you came up here for again?”

“Uh, a Medkit? Why?” 

The Scout looked perfectly fine when he came up there.

Sniper turned just in time for the balisong to catch him right in the bicep, tearing his shirtsleeve and drawing blood in an arc across his arm. Blue smoke filled his vision as he snarled and shoved his gun forward, using his body to put force behind the motion. With a grunt, the BLU Spy was pushed out of the smoke as the rifle connected with his chest. He stumbled only slightly, catching himself only a few feet away from where Sniper stood. A damn smug grin painted his face despite being caught in his disguise. 

Sniper rushed forward, bringing his rifle up to smack the Spy with the butt of it. The Spy read his move easily, dodging sharply to the left to avoid the blow. He delivered a strong punch to Sniper’s side. The muscles spasmed in response, allowing the Spy the opening to kick the back of his leg.

The force of being sent to his knee toppled the gun from Sniper’s hand. Instead of attempting to retrieve it, he swiftly brandished his kukri, pulling it from its sheath at his side. Hauling himself to his feet, he turned to the Spy, finding the man extending his own blade.

He stood in fencing position, a smug grin on his face. “En garde,” he hummed. It infuriated Sniper. 

Sniper surged towards the Spy, bringing his kukri down heavily, only to be parried or dodged by the BLU as he went on the defensive. Every deflected swing only aggravated him further. Stabs that the Spy landed went entirely unnoticed by him in his rage, something the Spy watched with a confused eye.

What Sniper lacked in close-quarters combat, he made up for with the ferocity he used to attack the Spy. Even when his kukri was knocked from his hands, he paid it no mind. The force he’d been using to drive his blade toward the man in front of him transferred to his fists. 

A particularly hard punch caught the Spy in the face, the sickening crack of bone crushing beneath Sniper’s knuckles, and the startled yell of pain echoed louder than the explosions of battle outside.  The BLU’s head jerked back, and the hand not holding his weapon shot up to clutch at his nose. 

With the opening provided, Sniper yanked the knife from the Spy’s hand and plunged the blade deep into his stomach. He gasped and attempted to pull away from the balisong lodged in his gut, but Sniper’s firm grip on his shoulder kept him from moving very far. With a snarl, he ripped the knife out and stabbed him twice more, only a couple of inches away from the first wound. 

This close to the Spy with the BLU no longer attempting to stab him, the blinding rage that painted his vision red slowly creeped out of his mind. Suddenly, he was all too aware of the situation he found himself in. 

Bright crimson gushed steadily from the Spy’s nose as he struggled against Sniper, a stark contrast to the blue uniform he wore. He could feel the warmth of his blood coating his fingers, no doubt staining the man’s suit. Muscles twitched under Sniper’s hold on his shoulder. When the Spy opened his mouth, he saw some of his teeth stained red. His stomach rumbled. His mouth watered. 

He was so hungry.

“Well, then-” the BLU gasped. “Get it over with.” 

Bite into his neck rip through the fabric of his mask dig your nails into his skin-

Sniper wrenched the knife out of the Spy. The man dropped to his knees, clutching at his stomach. 

He’s wounded he can’t run he can’t fight back easy kill easy hunt-

The knife clattered to the floor, soaked with blood. The Spy, keeled over and supporting himself on an arm, looked up at him. Blood dripped from his face and stomach, staining the wooden floor. Sniper stepped forward on shaking legs. 

He’d taste good you’d be stronger better for the team not hungry so hungry eat him eat him eat him-

All at once, Sniper snapped back to himself. He halted his movements toward the wounded Spy and instead staggered back. Wide eyes stared down at the man trembling on the floor. Sniper looked nearly as shocked as the Spy looked confused. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to escape.

“Where- Where are you going?” the Spy croaked. “Get back here! Finish me!” 

Sniper didn’t dare look back over his shoulder. He knew he wouldn’t be leaving the building if he did. 

“Coward!” The Spy’s weak voice grew fainter as Sniper stumbled down the stairs. “You filthy coward!” He shoved the door at the bottom open with enough force to make his shoulder tingle, squinting against the harsh light of day. He must’ve lost his glasses in the scuffle. He made it just outside the door before he collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit as he caught his breath.

The sound of battle was louder out there, the threat closer. He hadn’t bothered to grab his rifle or kukri. He didn’t have the time. It wasn’t like they’d be much use to him in his current state anyway. 

His breathing came in ragged huffs. His hands trembled violently when he pressed his palms into his eyes hard enough to make his vision spotty. The torrent of his own mind drowned out the sound of explosions just around the corner. Images of the Spy’s gutted frame filled his head: blood and viscera coating the floor, what his screams may sound like, what his skin would taste like when Sniper ripped it from his body. 

With a growl of frustration, he sunk his teeth into his hand hard enough to draw blood. It tasted of nothing, not even the irony tang Sniper remembered from before he turned. Maybe this would satisfy that primal urge to bite into skin. It wasn’t the same, could never be the same, but it dulled the horrible instinct that threatened to take over his mind. Sniper knew what would occur if he gave in to it, what he would become. He promised himself he’d never let that happen again.

But could he really keep that promise? One close-quarters fight, and Sniper nearly lost his mind. It was pathetic. He never should’ve pushed himself this far, not when he knew the risks. 

Then again, he’d made such good progress recently. The only reason he felt this hungry was because that quack of a doctor decided to make Sniper his little science experiment. If he never used the medigun on him, he could probably still go a couple of days. Yeah, this was the Medic’s fault. Definitely. 

Gravel crunched under boots loudly, easily heard over the sound of nearby fighting. Sniper’s head snapped up in the direction of the noise, quickly bringing his hand away from his mouth. Eyes wide and panicked, he searched frantically for a sign of who may be approaching, finding a shadowy figure cast onto the wall of an adjacent alley.

Bugger.

If an enemy—or God forbid, one of his teammates—stumbled upon him right now, there’d be nothing that could stop him. He had to get out of there.

Trying to haul himself to his feet was to no avail. He only fell back against the wall with a frustrated sigh, too weak to stand on his own. The small alleyway he resided in had no other places to hide, leaving him exposed to the unlucky bastard that was about to find him. He still had his SMG, though. Maybe he’d put a bullet in his brain and take a quick trip through Respawn, hideout there for the rest of the match until– wait, no; his teammates might still get killed and end up there. Damn it all. He was out of options.

 The footfalls grew louder. Sniper pulled the SMG out of its sling with shaking hands. He steadied it in his lap, finger on the trigger. His every breath trembled. The sound of the gravel was grating to his ears. 

The moment Sniper saw the RED Pyro turn the corner, it was like all the tension melted out of his body. His fingers went limp around his gun as his head fell back against the wall behind him with a dull thud. The Pyro was good. The Pyro was safe. The Pyro didn’t make him hungry . 

He wasn’t even entirely sure that thing was human under that gas mask it wore. Maybe that contributed to the absence of hunger around it, or maybe it was because he couldn’t see any of its skin. Either way, the Pyro was always the safest option when he wanted to improve his self-control but had gone a while without eating. Even its ruthless disposition on the battlefield made Sniper more sure of its inhumanness. But now that he knew that the Pyro was the figure approaching him, he let out a sigh of relief. 

Sure, it was probably also a bloody psychopath—he’d seen the things it did to the enemy team—but Sniper figured he hardly had any room to judge. Only one of them ate people, after all. 

The Pyro approached him with a bounce in its step, hefting the flamethrower in front of it as though the weapon were made of cardboard rather than steel. “Hey, mate,” he greeted weakly as it bounded over.

It stopped suddenly a couple of feet away from him, causing a jolt of panic to flare up inside Sniper. Did he have blood around his mouth? Even if it was blood his bite drew from himself, surely that wouldn’t look normal. He simply stared back at it, trying not to portray any of his internal worry on his face. It tilted its head as it observed him. 

The gentle warmth of the Pyro’s flamethrower spread over Sniper’s body, the flames licking at his clothes and skin. Despite the heat of the desert, the added warmth of the fire wasn’t overpowering. Sniper always felt cold anyway, so it was a welcome action. Through some miracle of science (the same kind that let the mercenaries keep dying and coming back to life over and over), the Pyro’s fire didn’t wound friendlies. Otherwise, it would end up being more of a liability than a helpful addition to the team. 

The warmth disappeared along with the sound of the flamethrower, which led Sniper to open eyes he hadn’t noticed he closed. The Pyro mumbled something that sounded a lot like “Spycheck!” and stepped forward the remaining distance. 

It crouched down in front of him, jumping into what Sniper assumed was a very animated retelling of a battle it partook in during the match. With the use of its hands and some very clear (and likely exaggerated) sound effects, he gleaned that the Uber’d Pyro nearly took down the entire enemy team with the help of the Demo, but noticed that the enemy Spy escaped and went to follow him, leading it here. 

What? Sniper spent a lot of time trying to decipher its muffled ramblings. He’d say he was getting pretty good at it.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseous at the fact that the Pyro had been following the Spy. What if Sniper had eaten him? The Pyro probably would’ve walked in and seen everything. He would’ve been caught red-handed (literally,) and there would’ve been nothing he could do about it. His mind worked to find a way that he could blame that on the Medic, too. 

“Well, you don’t need to worry ‘bout him no more,” Sniper mumbled. “Sneaky little wanker tried to pull a fast one on me. I took care a’ him, though. Should still be in Respawn.” Hopefully, the Spy was still in Respawn. Sniper didn’t even know if he had bled out yet. Now he was thinking about the Spy bleeding out. He swallowed reflexively. Great. Oblivious to Sniper’s inner turmoil, the Pyro clapped with an excited cheer, giving him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. 

Just then, it noticed the wounds Sniper donned from the fight, looking over him to ascertain the extent of the damage. He glanced around at the injuries he had sustained, noticing a dark red stain on the front of his shirt, sticking the cloth to his skin. Focusing on the tingling sensations across his body that signaled him of the damage, he realized that he had not only reopened his stitches, but he garnered a couple of stab wounds to the side during the fight as well. Bugger. “Got me good, didn’t he?” he laughed weakly, attempting in vain to take his mind off food. 

The Pyro mumbled something in response, making a cross with its fingers and then mimicking how the Medic held his Medigun. Sniper’s eyes widened in panic at what it was asking, and then he shook his head firmly. “No, no thanks, mate. I’ll be fine, just needa walk it off, is all.” The last thing he wanted was for the Doctor to show up. It wasn’t like he could heal him anyway. He’d probably try to do things the old-fashioned way and just sew Sniper up mid-battle. 

The Pyro huffed and held its palm to Sniper in a placating gesture, commanding something that sounded like, “Stay here.” It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, so he complied as the Pyro jogged off, leaving its flamethrower with him. 

When it returned a couple of minutes later carrying a Medkit, it explained that it was the closest one it had found. With a nod and a “Thanks,” Sniper tentatively took the Medkit from it. He’d never used one of these before; if he couldn’t walk off the wound, then he ended up in Respawn, simple as that. He wasn’t even sure if they’d work, what with his encounter with the Medigun. But he couldn’t just keep staring at it, not with the Pyro watching him attentively just a few feet away. 

Slowly, he flipped open the lid and grabbed the bandages and bottle of—he glanced at the label—Medical Fluid from its contents. Was he supposed to drink this stuff? Put it on his wounds? The label had no directions, just a red cross and its name printed boldly. He was at a complete loss. 

Gloved fingers wrapped around the gauze and the bottle, gently lifting it from Sniper’s hands. When he looked up, the Pyro sat crouched closer, its attention on getting the bottle cap open. After it did, it set the bottle down, working instead on rolling up Sniper’s sleeve to attend to the deep cut the Spy’s knife left. 

Panic flared through Sniper as it folded up his left sleeve. The bite was on that arm, right below the stab wound. Sniper knew the shape and color of the dark, ugly scar that resided there. He knew how eye-catching it was. He knew the Pyro wouldn’t miss it. “Wait.” He showed his palm to it as it did to him when telling him to stay put. Its head tilted up to look at him. Sniper saw his anxious expression in its lenses. 

The Pyro chirped something that was meant to be reassuring, something that could’ve easily been, “This won’t hurt.” 

His mouth went dry, and his mind blank of excuses, devoid entirely of reasons to stop. So, when Sniper said nothing, no further complaints, it continued to pull up his sleeve. 

Like how someone can’t look away from a trainwreck, Sniper found his gaze affixed to his arm. First, the dark veins that flowed down his arm and stopped at his elbow came into view. Then, greying scar tissue in the unmistakable pattern of teeth was revealed. Sniper glanced furtively at the Pyro’s masked face, trying desperately to read its expression. 

However, the Pyro didn’t pause when the bite was shown. It didn’t flinch or look up at Sniper or give any sign that it even saw the scar. Instead, it continued to move his shirt until the cut was visible. It only paused when it had to retrieve the bottle from the ground, which it poured a bit of its contents over the injury. Well, that answered his earlier question.

Whether or not the Pyro noticed the bite at all, Sniper decided not to mention it. He hoped—might’ve even prayed if he were a religious man—that somehow the Pyro didn’t see it. It’d have to be a miracle, but that’s exactly what he was looking for. 

The Pyro continued to wrap the site with the bandages, tearing off the end and securing it before pulling Sniper’s sleeve back down. It offered Sniper a thumbs-up, which he returned with a weak smile. 

A nearby scream put an end to the little moment they shared. Pyro’s head jerked in the direction of the sound. It asked if Sniper needed help with the rest of his injuries, to which he replied, “Nah, mate. The team needs you. Get out there. I’ll be right.” With a nod and a cheer of excitement, Pyro jumped to its feet, flamethrower already in hand, and ran off to join the fight. It called something over its shoulder that Sniper didn’t catch and disappeared out into the battle. 

Now, Sniper just had to get himself sorted out.

He ended up patching up the rest of his injuries after he realized that the Medical Fluid did, in fact, heal his wounds, unlike the Medigun. He’d have to let the Medic know about that.

The match ended quickly after that, though, so Sniper spent the rest of the battle leaning against the alleyway wall. Only when the shout of “Victory!” echoed over the battlefield did he stumble up to retrieve his discarded rifle and kukri. He found them right where he dropped them, along with a bloodstain in the middle of the room where the Spy fell. A splatter of blood across the floor told Sniper that he’d taken himself through Respawn. He almost felt bad for the guy. 

He waited until long after the humiliation round when both teams were back in their bases just so he could sneak in without encountering any of his teammates. He knew he should stop by the infirmary and tell the Medic everything he learned that day, sock him in the face for that bullshit with the Medigun, then demand something to eat, but the day’s ordeals really took it out of him. He didn’t have the energy to deal with the Medic, at least not without jumping the bloke. 

He passed out the moment he threw himself into his bed. The hunger would be worse tomorrow. He knew it would. But, he knew why he joined RED in the first place. He deserved it. He knew he’d survive. 

Chapter Text

The incessant banging at the van’s door rang loudly throughout the small cabin, each knocks increasingly intense and increasingly irritating. Every four knocks, the noise paused only to be punctuated with, “Yo, Sniper!” or, “Snipes, open up!” 

Sniper had been trying to ignore both the pounding on the door and the owner of the slightly annoyed voice behind it in hopes of being left alone, but–

“Snipes, I know you’re in there! I can literally hear you movin’ around. Just come on out, man.”

–that didn’t seem to be working. 

The hunger from the previous day had only intensified overnight, rolling around in his stomach with a strength that nearly drove him to nauseousness. It numbed the corners of his mind. The commands from his psyche instructing him to satiate this hunger—the means of which currently revolved around the Scout banging on his door—grew ever louder. His mouth watered at every deranged image that flashed behind his eyes of how easy it’d be to just drag the kid behind his van and take his fill. It’s not like anyone on base would be able to see it.

Sniper stumbled to his feet and took up pacing the small walkway to rid his mind of the troubling thoughts. No, he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t . He wasn’t some rabid animal that needed to be muzzled; he was a professional with standards and self-control, for Christ’s sake.  

But no matter how much self-control he claimed to have, even he could tell that it was quickly dwindling. 

He forced the most unappetizing thoughts to the front of his mind: a maggot-infested corpse, the rotting body of someone long dead, how the Scout would yell and fight to escape him. 

To Sniper’s mortification, his mouth watered at the last idea. 

 “Piss off!” he yelled back, causing the knocking to pause.

A loud, frustrated sigh made its way through the door, followed by a dull thud that made Sniper think the Scout smacked this head against it in his irritation. “Listen, man, Medic sent me out here to get you ‘cause me ‘n you are pals, and you might consider listenin’ to me, and he made it real clear that he is totally gonna beat my ass if you don’t show up for whatever doctor bullshit he needs to do with you,” Scout explained, his voice muffled through the wall of the camper, yet still clear in volume. 

He was so close . The van’s door was the only barrier between them. Only a few steps away. 

When Sniper found himself taking an unconscious step forward, he jerked backward quickly. His elbow collided with the empty kettle on the stove. It clattered to the ground, but he barely registered the noise over the torrent of his thoughts. 

Think of anything but the Scout anything but the kid he’s just a kid he’s right outside he’s-

Searching for something to focus on, the Scout’s words finally registered in his mind—the Medic. Think of the Medic, who he’d been putting off a visit to the entirety of the morning in fear that he was too far gone, that he’d just attack the bloke the moment he saw him. The Medic, who needed to see him, likely to bring up the deal Sniper foolishly made. The Medic, whose office lay amid the maze-like halls of the base, where Sniper would no-doubt run into one of his unlucky teammates on the way.

The Medic, who Sniper spitefully decided to blame for the situation he was in at the moment. 

With a scowl, he stumbled further into his van, away from the door. Space—he needed to put space between him and the kid. “I don’t care!” he yelled again, hoping to just drive the Scout away. 

No matter how much he could pretend that this was the Medic’s fault, Sniper knew that wasn’t the case. He’d made progress in controlling his appetite. He got confident. He pushed himself further. He took a risk. Now, it came back to bite him in the ass. He should’ve known better. 

“ I’m tryna do you a favor here! Doc said that it was either you get your ass in his office, or he brings his down here,” the Scout continued, unable to take ‘no’ for an answer. 

Sniper frowned at the door, pacing on unsteady feet. Heading to the infirmary would be terrible, but having the Medic show up at his van would be worse. At least inside the base, the constant knowledge of the presence of his seven other teammates nearby might be enough for him to keep himself under control for however long the visit took. At his camper, far enough away from the base that most noise wouldn’t be heard, secluded enough that any activity would remain unseen, it would be far too tempting—another risk he couldn’t take. 

“Damn it all,” he muttered, dropping his shades onto the table to massage his temples. He could make the visit quick, right? Get in, do whatever tests the Medic had planned, then retreat with his tail between his legs back to his van.  It was shameful, but it was the only choice he had. After, he could head off to the cemetery. Surely the tests wouldn’t take too long.

With a sigh, he turned towards the door. A mantra of reassurance flowed through his mind as he spoke, “Just run along and tell the doc I’m on my way, yeah?” 

The Scout paused, to which Sniper couldn’t help but bitterly note that it was probably the longest the kid had ever been quiet for. “You ain’t just tryna get rid of me, are ya?” he asked after the seconds of contemplative silence.

“ Scout ,” Sniper warned.

“Alright, alright! I’m goin’, jeez… But remember, it’s your ass!”

From what the Scout said earlier, it seemed like it was both of their asses on the line, but Sniper decided not to voice that comment. He carefully listened until he was sure that the Scout had retreated into the base, a feat made considerably more difficult by the way the ever-present hunger dulled his senses. Once the quick crunching of gravel beneath sneakers faded into the distance, Sniper leaned over his sink, gathering some water in his hands before splashing it on his face in an attempt to make himself look less dead, but that was as far as he could take the effort. He retrieved his sunnies and grabbed up his hat, but when he reached to open his door, he hesitated. 

He didn’t have time to deliberate if this was a good decision or not; with every passing second, Sniper felt the hunger clawing its way up his throat grow more and more intense. If he was going to do this, he had to go, and he had to go now.

With another pained sigh, he shoved open the van’s door and headed off towards the infirmary. 

Thankfully, traversing the base occurred without incident. It seemed as though each member of the team was preoccupied with something or another, enjoying the day off. Sniper felt grateful for it; he didn’t have an excuse ready if someone were to ask why he was stumbling through the halls and clinging to the wall for support. 

When he finally reached the door of the infirmary, he leaned on the frame while his fist fell heavily on the door. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor, followed by boots clicking on linoleum, answered his knocking. The door swung open, and the Medic’s smiling face greeted him. Sniper noted distantly that the Medic wasn’t in his usual lab coat, but a dress shirt topped with a beige waistcoat. Must save the labcoat for special occasions, he thought. Like healing people while they paint the other team’s entrails on the walls.

“Ah, hallo, Herr Sniper– oh, my.” The Medic’s eyes widened, taking in Sniper’s appearance. He wasn’t sure exactly how he looked at the moment, but it couldn’t have been good based on the Medic’s reaction alone. “Are you feeling alright? You look dead on your feet,” he laughed to himself, seemingly waiting for Sniper to get the joke. Sniper simply stared back at the doctor, a scowl creeping onto his lips. 

“Why do I even bother?” The Medic sighed under his breath and stepped away from the door, gesturing for Sniper to enter. Sniper staggered into the infirmary, pushing himself away from the door frame with a little difficulty.

Even in this state, he did not miss the way the Medic shut and locked the door behind him. 

He worried more for the Medic than he did himself, his body running on autopilot as he mechanically followed the instructions the doctor spoke. Every grotesque image was repressed, each grizzly command silenced; he clenched his jaw hard enough to hear a soft pop . So preoccupied, he hadn’t even noticed when the Medic led him from the first room of the infirmary—a waiting room of sorts that Sniper wasn’t too familiar with due to his haste to leave during his first visit—into the adjoining operating room. 

It smelt more like death than it did last time. The scent was thick, fresh, and overwhelming enough to prickle at the corner of his eyes. His mouth watered. He clenched his jaw harder. Either the Medic was simply used to the smell and showed no reaction as he instructed Sniper to take a seat on the operating table, or Sniper’s senses were just more finely attuned to it. 

Per the Medic’s instruction, Sniper discarded his vest, uniform shirt, and undershirt to allow the doctor to inspect how the site of his surgery had healed. Whatever improvements of the tissue the Medic rambled on about, Sniper tuned out as his eyes darted about the room in search of the origin of that overwhelming smell. 

No blood stained the floor. Every piece of equipment in there was clean. Even the deep sink in the back of the room looked practically unused. 

The Medic’s ungloved hand tilted Sniper’s chin up with little resistance. The other removed his shades so he could shine a small light into his eyes. Not quite sure if the Medic had instructed something of him, he followed the light with his gaze to the best of his ability, though he could tell it was lagging. 

The doctor tutted and turned off the flashlight, handing Sniper’s glasses back to him. “Tell me, when was the last time you ate?” His voice sounded as though Sniper was underwater, listening to someone speak to him from the surface. How long did he take to get to the infirmary that the hunger had gotten this bad? More importantly, how long did he have before the hunger became unbearable?
“Nine days ago,” Sniper slurred. 

“And how long can you comfortably go without eating?” 

Sniper noticed that the Medic still had his hand tilting his head up. Clumsily, Sniper turned his head to extract it from the doctor’s grasp. Keeping his gaze off the Medic, Sniper mumbled, “Th’ medigun messed me up. I’d b’fine.” 

The Medic raised an eyebrow. “The medigun intensified your hunger?” Sniper nodded. “Interesting. But that wasn’t my question.” 

“...Seven days.” 

His eyes widened minutely in response to Sniper’s answer. It was only when the Medic turned to scribble down his reply did Sniper notice the notepad filled with a messy scrawl that sat on a tray beside the doctor. “Hm. Well, that does explain your dazed countenance…” he trailed off, gesturing at Sniper, before jotting down a couple more lines on the paper. He cleared his throat. “In that case, I suppose we can postpone the tests until after I’ve fed you, ja?”

The reminder of what Sniper gained out of this deal was enough to clear his head even slightly. He chanced a glance up at the Medic, who looked at him with a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

 Surely the doctor had to get some sort of sick satisfaction out of this whole thing. In his hazy state of mind, that was the only explanation Sniper could come up with. Regardless, Sniper nodded jerkily in response, sliding off the table when the Medic grinned and told him to follow him. 

He snatched up his undershirt from where he threw it down on the table and hastily pulled it over his head, not bothering to take his hat off to make it easier, and stumbled after the Medic. He was led to a white refrigerator, the smell of death far stronger the closer he stepped toward it. His stomach rumbled audibly. It was as though the world narrowed to this moment. 

The Medic put his hand on the fridge’s handle, turning to Sniper with a broad grin. “What you’re about to see,” he muttered darkly, “is one of my most recent breakthroughs.” 

Without further flourish, the Medic pulled the refrigerator door open, stepping to the side to give Sniper a full view of its contents. The first thing Sniper noticed was the sweet, pungent odor that flooded his senses, stronger without the door to contain it. The sight of something blue caught his eye, and he looked past the gauze-wrapped objects that took up most of the fridge. What he wasn’t expecting was to find the BLU Spy’s severed head mounted on some sort of metal device.

He certainly wasn’t expecting the Spy to look at Sniper and sneer. 

The sudden movement startled Sniper into nearly tripping over his feet when he stumbled backward and away from the fridge, muttering a litany of shocked curses. 

“ You, ” The Spy hissed in return. “I should have known that you and this mad doctor were in cahoots. You are both insane .”

Sniper stared wide-eyed at him, then looked to the Medic, who seemed positively ecstatic. Throat now noticeably dry, he swallowed and turned back to the decapitated Spy, stammering out an, “I-I don’t-”

“Oh, save me your excuses, bushman. Your Doctor has already mentioned you.” Sniper shot a glare at the Medic after that statement. What exactly was the Medic telling this guy? The Spy continued, “Just wait. When I am free, I will find you both and kill you in ways you did not think possible. It will be long and painful, you will beg for death, and I will deny it of you until you teeter on the verge of insanity, then I will-”

While the Spy made his threats, the Medic reached in and retrieved one of the wrapped objects. He shut the fridge door with a roll of his eyes, effectively cutting off the Spy’s rambling, but his now louder threats of the torture he would inflict upon the two of them were simply muffled. 

With a chuckle, the Medic led the Sniper back to the operating table, beginning to unwrap what he retrieved from within the fridge. “So dramatic, I know, but he’ll tire himself out eventually. He just needs to get it out of his system,” he laughed with such calmness that it seemed more like he was talking about a toddler having a tantrum rather than the decapitated head of the enemy Spy sitting in his refrigerator.  “Still, rather impressive, ja?” His broad grin unnerved Sniper. 

Sniper answered with an awkward chuckle of his own and a slight nod, suddenly a little concerned about getting on the doctor’s bad side. He glanced from the oblong thing in the Medic’s hand to the fridge and back again. “What… What was I jus’ lookin’ at?” Sniper asked, trying to keep his words from slurring together. 

The Medic waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, just a little experiment I’ve been running. Though, I thought you would be a little more… excited, I should say, after your run-in with him yesterday.”

Sniper’s breath hitched in his throat. Every expletive he knew came to mind. How did the Medic know about that? Did anyone else? Deciding to feign his innocence, he choked out a, “What run-in?” 

The Medic smiled and shook his head. “No need to play dumb with me; it will get you nowhere.” Well, shit. So much for that. “But, I suppose I can humor you. Yesterday, I noticed I did not see you during the match, less than normal, anyway. So, I decided to take a look at the damage logs after the battle to see if perhaps something glitched in Respawn that kept you away from the fight. What I found was that you made multiple Critical Hits on the Spy but that his death came by his own revolver nearly ten minutes later,” he explained. “The conclusions I came to were that you either purposefully did not finish the man or that you fled and therefore could not finish him.” He looked over his glasses at Sniper, examining him closely. Sniper tried not to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. His voice lowered as though he were telling a secret when he spoke next. “Considering your current state, I can infer what may have caused you to flee.” 

“All this to say, he will not be bothering you for the upcoming battles. He still serves a purpose to me yet,” the Medic stated and looked at Sniper with a certain expression on his face.

He realized with a churning in his gut that Medic viewed his whole disposal of the Spy as a favor towards Sniper, if the way he looked as though he expected to be thanked was any indication. Sniper couldn’t bring himself to oblige him, not when so many unanswered questions tumbled about through his head. How did he even get his hands on the Spy? How the hell was he still alive? What purpose was the Medic referring to?

Above all, the most pressing of these questions was in regards to the Administrator, the woman that Sniper knew only from the voice that boomed throughout the battlefield and the assistant that sometimes visited the base to carry out her will. “But, won’t the Administrator…” his voice trailed off, the forming of coherent sentences feeling like a much more difficult task than it was yesterday. 

Thankfully, though, the Medic got the message. “Ah, don’t worry about her. I have certain… leeway that I can exploit,” was all the explanation he gave.

All further complex thought halted within Sniper when the Medic handed over the object he had finally finished freeing from the gauze. 

The offered object was none other than an arm, no larger than Sniper’s own, severed from above the elbow and just above the wrist. The cut was jagged, and the otherwise pale skin colored pink around the wound.  The scent that wafted from the limb told Sniper that it was fresh and certainly not lead-filled. 

Sniper had to bite his tongue to stop himself from devouring the arm right out of the Medic’s hands. With hands that trembled with the effort of his restraint, he gingerly lifted the limb from the doctor’s grasp, glancing up at him as his stomach rumbled loudly. “This’ll be messy…” he muttered, not bothering to keep his words from melding together.

“Nothing that cannot be cleaned, I assure you,” the Medic reassured. Then, with an odd smile, he said, “Go on. Eat.” 

That was all the permission he needed. 

Sniper dug his teeth into the meat on the forearm, ripping mouthfuls away with crushing force. The muscle that corded throughout the limb felt tough as he chewed, but delicious nonetheless. Blood splattered weakly from each bite. It slicked the lower half of his face and splattered down onto his shirt. It seemed as though all of his higher brain functions ceased, replaced with the all-consuming mantra of eat, eat, eat. 

So, he ate. 

And ate. 

Only when his teeth clicked against the bones did the dizzying haze of hunger finally let up. He pulled the limb away, now stripped of its meat, and relished in the clarity that enhanced his senses after a meal. His vision focused. He no longer felt as though he were walking through water or trying to listen to someone with a bunch of sand in his ears. Strength returned to his hands. The exhaustion that plagued him ebbed away. 

When he glanced up, he found the doctor watching him intently. He had leaned forward slightly from where he stood nearly two feet away from Sniper. A certain expression held his features. A grin quirked the corners of his lips up subtly, but his eyes were cold, serious, observing Sniper in such a way that made him feel like a diseased animal to be cured. 

He supposed that, in a way, he was. 

Sniper shifted uncomfortably with the combination of the Medic’s gaze and that worrying thought, which he probably didn’t need to look into. Nah, definitely not. 

The Medic, however, took this as some sort of cue, seeing as Sniper still held the bloodstained bones in his hands and snapped out of his trance-like state with a start. He quickly turned about himself, procuring a plastic bag seconds later, and held it open for Sniper. 

“I’ll take care of those,” he said, and Sniper gently set the bones into the bag. The bag was tossed into a free corner while the doctor headed towards the deep-set sink in the back of the room. 

All the while, Sniper sat on the operating table, looking around the area with newfound clarity. Even the hum of the overhead lights—of which, there was considerably little, the room was far darker than Sniper thought any surgical wing ought to be—buzzed distinctly in his ears. 

This also meant that the thick scent of death was ever more present. It would be easy to go back to the fridge and retrieve the other extremities, so easy to give into the primal part of his mind that told him to keep eating. It was always there, curled in the corners of his brain, pushing Sniper to eat more than just the bare minimum, telling him to bite and consume. He always ignored it, pushed it back, and repressed the images and commands, but he worried that it would win one day. 

The Medic returned before him, the clicking of his shoes bringing Sniper back into the present. This time, he offered a damp washcloth to Sniper, who took it gratefully with a mumbled, “Cheers, mate.” He nodded in return, and Sniper began to wipe away the remnants of his meal from his around his mouth and chin, where the blood dripped down his neck and where it seeped onto his hands. The damage done to his white undershirt would be a bit of trouble to fix, but he had a couple extra for a reason. 

When he deemed himself sufficiently cleaned up, the Medic took the cloth from him and dropped it in the sink to be cleaned up later. Sniper supposed that the bloodied cloth didn’t look too out of place in the operating room. 

“Now,” the Medic began, turning back to Sniper with a small grin. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I ran a quick examination on you?” 

Holding up his end of the bargain, Sniper nodded with an inaudible sigh. “Whatever you say, doc.”

To the Medic’s word, the examination was a quick one. 

If anything, it reminded Sniper a bit of the check-ups he’d go to the clinic for as a kid, what with all the poking at prodding that occurred. His eyes, ears, mouth, and nose all had a light shined into them while the Medic muttered to himself in German; he bit down on popsicle sticks—the first one, he snapped in half when he bit down with just a little bit of his strength—until the doctor was satisfied, and he squeezed the metal handles of a machine together to test his grip strength, which kinda reminded him of some sort of carnival game. 

It was all strangely normal, except for when the Medic took his blood pressure and mumbled nearly in awe about how the machine could possibly yield no results, but he could also bleed so furiously when cut.

The Medic even asked him questions here and there, although instead of the normal “Are you allergic to any medication” questions, Sniper was asked, “Do you prefer to eat men or women,” “Does the health of an individual impact how they taste,” and “Do you have a preference for organs or limbs?”

He also learned that the arm he had eaten earlier belonged to the decapitated Spy in the fridge.  Despite suspecting it, the revelation made Sniper’s stomach churn unappealingly. He tried so desperately to avoid eating the Spy yesterday, and yet it happened anyway. 

Different circumstances, he reasoned. The body parts were no longer attached to the Spy; the bloke wasn’t below him, struggling to fight him off. What he was eating wasn’t technically alive. It was a loophole, sure, but he hadn’t broken any of those rules that he’d carefully followed for so long. He was fine. Everything was fine. At least, that’s what he told himself.

The moment the Medic finished his examination, Sniper made his leave with a muttered “thanks” and a glance at the refrigerator. Something uncomfortable, almost akin to guilt, twisted inside him. He ignored it the best he could.  

He knew the smell of blood and death likely clung to him from where his undershirt held the evidence of what happened in the infirmary. That thought alone made his retreat to his camper a quick one.

Chapter Text

Over the following two weeks, the battlefield remained entirely devoid of the BLU Spy. 

For the first couple of battles in his absence, the BLU team approached each fight with unrivaled aggression, ripping win after win from the REDs’ hands. They fought tooth and nail, hardly letting any REDs get more than two kills each. 

The enemy Soldier, for one, seemed determined to avenge his fallen teammate, though Sniper could only make out broken phrases involving terms like “KIA” through the furious threats the Soldier shouted. 

The rest of the team looked similarly motivated. Each BLU took it upon themselves to subject the REDs to increasingly gruesome deaths, almost in a competition of sorts. Their Pyro appeared to be winning, unsurprisingly, through an elimination of igniting the RED Spy, pushing him into the water that flowed under the bridge separating the two bases, then hacking his burnt body apart with its axe. Sniper managed to headshot the BLU maniac, but he did not see the Spy for a good half hour afterward. 

To Sniper’s relief, he never found himself on the receiving end of the BLU Pyro’s axe. Despite not being able to feel pain, he hardly thought it would be a pleasant experience.

Eventually, the first week ended, and the BLUs maintained their longest winning streak yet. 

Then, the second week rolled around. Something changed within the BLU team. 

Aggression shifted to restlessness, which turned to nervousness, which left the BLUs taking some devastating losses. They kept almost entirely on the defensive, but they stayed in groups whenever they worked up the courage to place some attacks of their own.  

Interestingly enough, Sniper often found himself having to cover the Medic more often than not. It seemed like the BLUs unanimously agreed to target the bloke, keeping him stuck in Respawn on the chances Sniper couldn’t watch his back. The Medic, however, simply smiled that evilly-smug grin of his at the enemies any time they approached, firing off that weird syringe-gun weapon he had. 

It puzzled Sniper to no end. What spooked the BLUs so bad? And what did it have to do with the Medic? He wondered if they somehow knew of what the Medic did to the Spy, but that thought was quickly banished. Even if the Medic happened to be on the Administrator’s good side, surely the enemy team knowing about the Spy’s… situation would be enough for her to put an end to whatever experiments the Medic ran on him. 

Instead, Sniper came to his own conclusion: the BLUs simply realized that they had yet to receive a new mercenary to fill the vacant role of the Spy, which meant that their teammate still lived. Whoever they decided to take their anger out on—or whoever they decided to fear— was none of Sniper’s business. 

Even some of the RED team questioned just what had happened to the Spy. To Sniper’s knowledge, the Medic kept quiet, simply shrugging or nodding along when any members of the team voiced their confusion. Sniper remained similarly vague if he was ever dragged into a pre-battle conversation regarding the BLUs.

Despite this ominous feeling that settled over some of the REDs, the team pulled themselves together during the fights and reclaimed a winning streak of their own.

It almost felt wrong, in a way, to see members of both teams fearing what the Spy underwent, then to return to the infirmary after battle and feast on his corpse. But if he kept telling himself that what the Spy didn’t know wouldn’t kill him, Sniper could almost quell the guilt that churned in his gut. 

Speaking of ominous feelings, he never saw what became of the Spy’s severed head after their first interaction. Whenever he ventured down to the infirmary to take his fill, the fridge simply held the bloke’s gauze-wrapped limbs. The Medic’s mention that the Spy  “still had a purpose” to him whispered in the back of his mind each time he opened the refrigerator. The guilt mounted. He ignored it.

After those two weeks of Sniper feeling no urge to jump at every creaky floorboard or gust of wind that filled his nests, the Medic told him that he could not keep the Spy any longer; he would send him through Respawn, and he would return to battle soon thereafter. The Spy’s threats rang clear in Sniper’s mind, but he pushed down any rising feelings of anxiety about his return. He had bested the Spy during fights before; he could do it again.  

At least, he hoped he could.

It wasn’t until three days after the Spy had been returned to his team did Sniper hear he’d been sighted on the field.

Sniper, however, saw no sign of the bloke. Not a single ripple in the air to signal where the cloaked Spy moved about, none of the Engineer’s machines short-circuited because of his sapper, and Sniper didn’t even see any of his teammates fall to backstabs. If the Spy was back on the field like the Heavy and the Demo claimed him to be, then he certainly wasn’t doing very well. 

The day’s battle came and went, with the REDs just barely coming out on top. The aggression that had dwindled throughout the second week of the Spy’s disappearance resurged in full force within the BLU’s, making the RED’s victory a hard-earned one. 

Sniper hardly found time to even snipe between the headshots his BLU counterpart enacted on him, since he usually ended up getting his brains blown out anytime he wasn’t entirely behind cover. Only when the RED Spy headed over to accost the BLU did Sniper manage to find enough time to fire off some shots that helped his team turn the tide of the grim-looking match. He’d have to thank the bloke sometime soon. 

Not tonight, he thought, glancing back at the base behind him. He could see the windows into the rec room casting a yellow glow over any nearby objects, a sharp contrast to the blue haze of twilight that painted everything a cool blue. Battles typically ended much earlier, but all the added overtime pushed the fight far later into the evening than usual. The team would probably be having dinner right now, celebrating the win, or doing whatever it is they did after matches. 

No, Sniper had no desire to head back into the base. He’d just get hungry. It was more trouble than it was worth. 

Instead, he closed the remaining metres between himself and his van, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He set his weapons down on his table intending to give them a proper cleaning, figuring it was probably time to do so anyway. He’d turn in for the night afterward—the long match really took it out of him, after all—then head over to the infirmary for whatever spare organs or limbs the Medic happened to have on hand for him. 

The BLU Spy was put safely out of his mind. If the bloke couldn’t even get a backstab, what did Sniper have to worry about him anyway? 

Sniper slept fitfully. 

He was a light sleeper, something he’d picked up back when he was just an assassin for hire. Years of having to bunk in dangerous places for a job drilled the habit into his brain, so any slight sound or movement always jerked him wide awake. Usually, it wasn’t much of a problem; with how far his camper was from the base, any noise made over there could hardly be heard from his bed, thus making sleeping an uneventful ordeal. Tonight, however, some higher power seemed to have conspired to make sure that Sniper wasn’t getting a wink of rest.

First, it was a light rattling of his window that awoke him. He knew it was likely just the wind, but the rational part of Sniper told him to get up and check anyway. He was nothing if not careful. 

  After a groggy inspection, he deemed that the noise was, in fact, just a result of the wind. He went back to bed with little difficulty. 

Then, the van’s door creaked. When Sniper propped himself up on his elbows in his bed, he saw nothing but the door slightly ajar. Strange, because he was sure he locked the door before he turned in. This time, when he crept down from his bed, he picked up the SMG he left on the counter. 

He pushed the door open and stepped out of the van, holding his gun out while he surveyed the flat land around him. He couldn’t see far, what with the lights strewn around the outside of the bases only bright enough to keep the surrounding area from complete darkness, but he could see enough. The surrounding area was completely devoid of everything but a couple of trees, powerlines, and the neverending expanse of dirt—nothing out of the ordinary. 

After pointing the SMG at any gust of wind, Sniper realized exactly what he was looking for; ripples in the air that signaled him to the movement of a cloaked figure, footprints made from invisible shoes, plumes of smoke, or the lit coal of a cigarette. 

He was looking for the damned Spy. In the middle of the night. All the way out at his camper. 

Two weeks without the BLU and all it took was a couple of creepy noises and the conditioned paranoia Sniper thought he got rid of came back in full force. What a bunch of bullshit. 

He cussed quietly to no one in particular, trudging back into his van. Making sure to lock the door behind him (and then double and triple-check just to be sure he did,) Sniper climbed up the rungs of the ladder leading to his lofted bed, threw himself into it, and resolved to fall asleep without any further interruption. 

No way in hell the Spy would head this far into enemy territory, he thought. The bloke might be an arrogant snake, but he wasn’t entirely an idiot. Sniper just needed to replace the obviously faulty lock on his door and seal in his window pane better and everything would be great. 

Besides, admitting that he was a tad worried about the Spy showing up would be letting that BLU win, it would be accepting that the Spy had gotten into his head. Sniper wouldn’t let that happen. 

The third time Sniper awoke, he hardly fell back asleep in the first place. This time, it was to his rifle falling off its stand. Just when he felt himself slipping into the dreamless embrace of unconsciousness, the sudden sound of the gun hitting the floor echoed through the cabin. He swore and jerked up, smacking his head on the ceiling in the process, and looked for the source of the clatter once the resounding dizziness from the impact faded. A scowl marred his features when he saw his favorite gun on the floor, illuminated only by the faint moonlight filtering through the window.

He could hardly pass off the cause of the interruptions as the wind, he figured as he bitterly climbed down from his bed. Maybe the stand had loosened over the years, maybe he didn’t set the gun in there right in the first place. Yeah, that’s what it was. He didn’t want to consider the other possibility. 

After gently setting his rifle back in its stand, Sniper rechecked the doors, peered outside the window before making sure that was locked as well, and briefly considered putting his knife beside his bed. Doing that didn’t necessarily mean anything, the action itself didn’t technically admit Sniper’s suspicions about the Spy’s whereabouts, and it didn’t exactly betray his fears. It was just a precaution, something to fall back on just in case. He was being careful, that’s all it was.  

With a sigh, and perhaps a couple of muttered curses, Sniper set his SMG back on the counter, hefted himself back up to his mattress, and tucked his kukri snuggly under his pillow. He could feel the hard outline of the metal blade through the thin material of his pillow, but it was a comforting presence. 

The Spy would have to be a right idiot to waltz into his van, he decided with a faint smile. Curled up on his side, Sniper let his eyes droop closed. His remaining senses strained for any sounds of movement, any jostles of the camper, anything off. When he came back with nothing, he let himself relax, even minutely. Sleep came soon after. 

It couldn’t have been long after that Sniper’s eyes fluttered open, judging by the way the angle of the moonlight beaming through the window appeared to be the same as when he last saw it. For a second, he wondered sourly what could have woken him up in the seemingly empty cabin. 

Then, he saw it. 

The moonlight cast through the glass sent rays of silver streaming onto the walkway. When Sniper traced the beams with his eyes, he noticed that the light looked different in one spot on the aisle. It refracted at a slightly different angle like light does when passing through water instead of thin air. 

Or rather, something pretending to be thin air. 

The spot rippled as the movement of a cloaked figure does—as the movement of a cloaked Spy does .

Sniper’s fingers grasped blindly for his knife, and he shot out of his bed the second he held the weapon in his hand, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the ceiling again in his haste. When his feet hit the floor, he slashed wildly about, expecting to hear a cry of pain or the sound of his knife cutting through expensive fabric. 

No such noise came. 

He paused and glanced around the interior of the camper. His breathing was uneven and ragged, his grip on the hilt of his kukri fast, as he searched for another bend in the light, another ripple in the air, hell, anything that could tell him where the Spy went. 

But he saw nothing. There was no one in his van. 

He stood stock-still for a long moment. Then, a shaky sigh escaped him, one that bubbled off into a quiet, near-hysterical laugh. Of course—of course!—there was no one there. The shaking fingers of his free hand combed through his hair relentlessly as he slumped heavily into the booth at his table, letting himself lean on the wall in his exhaustion.

He dropped the knife in the middle, his hand moving from his hair to cover his face. The hand that previously held his weapon drummed an uneven rhythm on the surface. “Christ’s sake, I’m losin’ it, ain’t I?” he muttered to himself. Bloody hallucinating, that’s what he was. Talk about a crazed gunman. If only Dad could see him now. 

He knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight, that was for sure. He’d be damn tired in the next day’s battle, but he’d have to make do. Maybe he’d give the Spy a proper welcome back as a bit of payback; he’d paint the BLU’s brains all over every surface of the battlefield with such intensity he’d wish he was back in the refrigerator.

It sure as hell wasn’t professional, but Sniper reasoned that ‘professional’ went out the window when he started hallucinating the Spy showing up in his goddamned van. 

He groaned and rubbed at his temples, overcome with a sudden craving for coffee. Damn shame he couldn’t stomach regular food and drink anymore—even raw animal meat made his stomach churn, and he heaved up anything other than water or human blood—because the boost of energy would sure be a welcome help. God knows he’d need it. Plus, he had a rather nice collection of mugs that he didn’t get to use anymore. 

Sniper sighed and–

His kukri lifted from the table and plunged into the back of his left hand, pinning it to the table. 

A startled yelp tore from his throat at the sudden movement. He flinched reflexively, but the blade only secured his hand in place and sent an odd buzzing sensation up his arm with every aborted twitch of his fingers. Wide eyes flickered up to watch as the space before him filled with the moonlight-illuminated figure of the BLU Spy. 

Well, at least he knew he hadn’t been hallucinating. 

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doin’ here?” Sniper spat, his mind racing in its search for an escape from the very pissed-looking Spy in front of him.

His SMG lay far out of reach on the counter behind the BLU. His rifle was out of the question. His fists would be no use, what with one of them stuck to the table and the other not close enough to his enemy to do anything more than love-tap him. Possibilities narrowed as the Spy reached into his suit jacket and retrieved his gun.

The thought of ripping his knife from his hand ended abruptly when the barrel of the Spy’s revolver leveled between his eyes. Sniper noted immediately that he even had a suppressor on the damn thing. “I’m sure you know exactly what I’m doing,” the BLU responded evenly, his voice practically dripping with venom. The sneer he shot Sniper reminded him of the one he received during his first encounter with Spy in the fridge. 

The safety of the gun clicked off. 

He was out of time. And options. 

Sniper shot forward suddenly, grabbing the hilt of his kukri with his free hand, ignoring the buzzing tremors that shot up his arm with the motion. 

He made to yank the knife from his table and fist, but the Spy was quicker. 

The Spy shifted his aim and fired with practiced ease. Dark blood sprayed across the table. Sniper’s hand jerked away from his kukri. The strong tingling sensation started again with an intensity that made his teeth clack together, pouring from the bullethole in his palm. He grunted and turned his head up to glare at his attacker. 

“I’m afraid I cannot make due on all of my promises. At least, not tonight,” the Spy hummed, ignoring his glare and returning the gun barrel to Sniper, aiming at his chest rather than his head. However, Sniper focused more on the Spy’s hands trembling furiously, the gun bobbing rather dramatically in the air. 

He’d never seen the Spy shake before. 

Unaware of Sniper’s observation, the Spy continued, “I have a very busy schedule this evening. You understand.” 

Sniper made to respond, but the force of the bullet hitting him square in the chest cut his sentence off abruptly. Sniper lurched backward against the wall, which pulled against his trapped hand uncomfortably. He felt the blade slice through skin and muscle as he fell back, but not enough to free him.

The odds weren’t in his favor, not when he was restrained to the table, and certainly not when his opponent outmatched him in close combat as the Spy did. Surely there was something he could do rather than just sit there and take it.

Three more shots fired from the revolver in quick succession. 

The buzzing spread through his entire body in pulsing waves. His breaths were forced into his lungs through the holes in his chest rather than through his mouth or nose. Blood soaked the front of his shirt. He felt fluid filling his lungs. His body twitched reflexively, and he felt his knife saw through more of his hand. An idea formed in his mind.

He was looking at this all wrong. The Spy was just a trapped animal, even if he didn’t know it. Trying to overpower a spooked animal never worked. The revelation came to him; brute force would not work in this situation, but the element of surprise would. 

The Spy fired once more. Sniper went limp, held his breath, and waited. 

The BLU lingered in front of Sniper’s still body for a couple of agonizing seconds, tucking his revolver back into his suit jacket with a look of disdain on his face. Sniper watched him from the corner of his eye as the hand stowing his gun returned, holding his disguise case instead. He plucked a cigarette from its contents, placing it between his lips as he returned his disguise cased and searched for his lighter. 

Finally, he turned away. 

Sniper lifted his head minutely. The Spy’s back faced him as he stepped toward the door, muttering an array of curses as he struggled to light the cigarette with shaking hands. He stopped in his tracks, devoting his attention to the task at hand.

Sniper moved. Still holding his breath, he slowly pulled his trapped hand against the blade, careful to be silent in his ministrations. He ignored the numbness that shot up his arm with every movement. The last bit of skin gave way to the knife, freeing him and basically splitting his left hand in half.

He gripped the hilt of his kukri with his right hand, an action made difficult by the fact that he could no longer feel the fingers of either hand. Yanking the weapon from his table as quietly as he could, he glanced back to the Spy, only to find that he had not moved. He took a long drag from his now-lit cigarette with a shuddering breath. 

Sniper’s bare footfalls were silent on the van’s floor. The choked yell the Spy let out when Sniper plunged his kukri through his back was not. 

Backstabbing the Spy, how funny.

“Aim for the head next time, mate,” he practically gurgled through the blood filling his mouth. With his chest practically pressed against the back of the twitching Spy, and his mouth by his ear, it would be so easy to lean over and rip out the BLU’s throat with his teeth. It would stop the pained gasps he made as he clawed at the blade protruding from his chest, too. 

He considered it for a moment before deciding against the action; the bloke was still alive. Even with how Respawn scrubbed its users’ minds of the few seconds before their deaths—likely to keep the teams from losing it after all the gruesome ends they endured—Sniper figured that the Spy would probably remember something like that. 

Sniper dragged his kukri down an inch, pulling another weak cry from the Spy—now practically limp against him—before wrenching the knife out of him with a slick noise. 

The moment the knife pulled free, the Spy crumpled heavily to the ground, his neck bent at an awkward angle from where he slumped against the door. His fingers twitched intermittently. Sniper couldn’t call himself a professional if he didn’t finish the job now, could he?

He raised the machete over his head with both hands and cleaved open the back of the Spy’s skull with one strong crack. Blood spurted from the wound in an arc, hitting his already-soaked undershirt and face with the spray. He tugged the blade from the corpse and brought it down once more. The Spy stopped moving. 

His kukri fell from his grasp with a clatter. He dropped to his knees beside it seconds later.  Wheezing breaths forced their way from his mouth. He spat out the blood filling his throat. He moved purely on instinct when he dragged himself over the Spy’s body, putting one numb hand on the door for support and the other on the BLU’s jaw. Using his leverage, he tilted the Spy’s head up and back, which gave him full access to his cloth-covered neck. 

The still-lit coal of the Spy’s cigarette caught his eye. It lay discarded by Sniper’s right leg, where the BLU must’ve dropped it when Sniper stabbed him. Still holding the Spy’s head back, he reached down and retrieved the cigarette with uncooperative fingers. 

Smoke lifted from the cherry in thin trails. The long-buried twinge of addiction curled in the corners of his brain—the remnants of a habit not truly broken. He gave in and brought the cigarette to his lips. 

The burn when he drew the smoke into his throat was absent, and he lacked the pleasurable buzz that soothed the back of his mind—the sensation he initially picked up smoking for. Drugs of any kind just didn’t work for him anymore, at least, not as well as they used to. It was a theory he thoroughly tested and confirmed during his first few years of being undead, with a wide range of substances to boot. 

Doses that should’ve killed him provided minimal reaction, and he had to smoke a pack and a half just to feel anything. When he quit cold turkey he didn’t even feel any withdrawal symptoms, but that lingering addiction still resurfaced now and again. 

He took one more drag, letting the smoke billow out from his nose, before turning his attention back to the Spy. 

Holding the cigarette in his mouth, Sniper lifted the hem of the Spy’s balaclava to his jaw, grabbed the cigarette with a little difficulty, then snuffed out the coal on the skin of his throat. The stubbed-out butt hit the floor, Sniper’s hand now having much more important uses, like grasping onto the Spy’s shoulder to keep his corpse steady while he dug his teeth into his neck. 

He only took a bite. Just one mouthful of flesh as a ‘fuck you, you smarmy bastard’ before the body fizzled out into Respawn. Which was fine. He was dead now, so Sniper hadn’t broken any of his carefully laid rules. Besides, he didn’t need much else; he’d eaten only four days ago. The hunger wasn’t overpowering yet. 

With a wheezing sigh—would digging the bullets out of his chest make his breathing better or worse?—Sniper hauled himself to his feet, heavily supporting himself on the door and probably getting blood everywhere. At least the mess the Spy made disappeared with his body, but the blood that Sniper smeared all over the table, floor, and wall would have to be scrubbed clean. 

He didn’t even have a first-aid kit in his van to try to minimize the mess, since he’d never needed one before. Logically, he knew he should’ve been heading off to the medbay, but it wasn’t like his wounds were life-threatening (well, the blood filling his lungs might be a problem, but it was nothing Respawn couldn’t fix), just a tad annoying. Was it worth waking the Medic at—he glanced at the clock on his wall—two in the morning? 

Resigned to dealing with breathing through blood and the holes in his chest until a decent time, Sniper made to find some old shirts to mop up the mess everywhere until he could muster up the energy to clean it proper. Then, a realization hit him. 

He wasn’t the only man the Spy threatened that day. Before the Spy shot him, the Spy mentioned being busy, so if he’d already come for Sniper….

Shit. 

Bugger .

He needed to get to the infirmary.

Sniper pounded on the infirmary’s door, three heavy raps that nearly took it off the hinges. Had the medbay been any closer to the rest of the team’s rooms, the noise alone would’ve woken them. 

There was no answer. Sniper knocked again. Silence.

The Spy couldn’t have beat him there—he couldn’t have. He was likely just coming out of Respawn, considering how long it took Sniper to quickly snatch up his SMG, slip on a pair of shoes, and stumble onto base. There was no way the Spy could’ve gotten to the Medic already. No way. None at all.

It wasn’t like he was knocking on the wrong door, either. The Medic had to be in there—he didn’t have a separate room like the rest of the classes did (even Sniper got one, which he has left wholly untouched) and he didn’t sleep off-base, so it made the most sense that he had his own room adjacent to the infirmary. Yet the goddamn Medic wasn’t answering his goddamn door and Sniper was pacing now and probably getting blood everywhere and– 

He turned back to the door, pounding on it once again. “Medic!” he called through ragged gasps, his lungs spasming uncomfortably against his ribcage. “Doctor, are you in there?” His voice came out weak and wet-sounding through the blood in his mouth, which he coughed into the neckline of his ruined undershirt. 

Just when the worrying thought that perhaps the Medic was somewhere else entirely crossed his mind, he heard the telltale sound of distant movement behind the door. Muffled German curses accompanied it as the noise grew closer to the door, some of which Sniper recognized from the ones the doctor spouted on the battlefield. Thankfully, the swearing sounded more annoyed than pained or frantic.

Finally, the door swung open. The Medic stood before him, sluggishly smoothing down his sleep-mussed hair. “Ach, was ist los?” he mumbled, leaning heavily on the door while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 

 A quick once-over of the bloke told Sniper that he was fine; he had no visible injuries and bore all his limbs. The only unusual thing about the Medic at the moment was his slightly askew glasses. He let out a relieved sigh but the tension in his body held firm. He didn’t have time to relax, not when the Spy could be on his way. His numb fingers gripped his SMG tighter. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but the Medic cut him off. 

“ Gott in Himmel! ” The Medic cried, wide-eyed as he finally got a good look at the man before him. “Sniper, was –”

“The Spy,” he ground out, pushing into the infirmary, causing the Medic to step back lest he be knocked into. The only light in the room streamed through a doorway on his right, which he assumed to be the Medic’s personal room. He shut and locked the door behind him with a struggle—a combination of his blood slicking the doorknob and his shaking hands—and turned back to the doctor. “Bloody prick– got me in m’ van. For revenge. He’s on his way.” His voice was ragged and broken as he spoke, every word making it harder to breathe. 

The Medic stared at him for a moment. 

Then, he laughed . 

Nothing like the bone-chilling cackles heard on the battlefield, but a small chuckle nonetheless. “Oh, please, the Spy will not come here—that, I can assure you,” he grinned, waving his hand dismissively.

 Sniper scowled. Did the Medic think he was messing around? He had the wounds to prove otherwise. 

“Now, komme , let me heal you,” the doctor crooned. Sniper felt the Medic’s hand fall soothingly on his lower back, making to lead him toward the operating room. 

He stepped out of the contact with a wince. God, did his lungs always feel this tight? “‘M not goin’ anywhere.” 

Even in the dim lighting of the infirmary, Sniper could see the Medic’s grin slip from his face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he sighed. “The Spy–”

“–Is comin’ through that door. When he does, I’m shootin’ him.” In all honesty, he doubted he could lift his gun in his current state, what with his arms and chest being nearly entirely numb. He shook that thought from his head. He had bigger problems to worry about, like spy-proofing the infirmary. 

Sniper turned away from the Medic’s observing eye to do just that, only to be stopped when he coughed the blood accumulating in his throat into his elbow. He ignored it and pushed forward. The Medic did not. 

“You’re hurt–”

“I’ll live.” He didn’t like the way the Medic said that; like he was worried about him. The thought made him feel nauseous. 

He staggered to every adjacent door connecting to the infirmary—the operating room, the Medic’s personal room, and the door leading to the hall—and made sure that each of them was locked. Then, he double-checked them. The Medic, standing somewhere off to the side, sighed with resignation as he watched. 

“There any other entrances?” 

“Sniper–”

“D’your windows lock?” 

“ Sniper!” 

He whirled around, response on his tongue, only to find the Medic a mere foot away. The look the doctor shot him would’ve killed any reply, regardless of his sudden proximity. “Do you know why the Spy will not show up here, hm? Do you?” he prompted Sniper, his voice low. 

He took a step closer. Sniper mirrored it with a step backward. 

“That is because the last time the BLU Spy appeared in my infirmary to trifle with matters that did not concern him, he was dismembered. His head was placed in my refrigerator, where he stayed for two weeks. Does that ring a bell?” 

The Medic advanced another two steps. Sniper retreated until the backs of his legs bumped into the doctor’s desk. His hands came down on the surface on either side of Sniper, effectively caging him in with his body. 

“I ensured that he understood that I would not be as merciful if he were to make that mistake again.” The Medic, whose face was a scant distance from his, leveled Sniper with a stern look; one that made his skin crawl in a way he couldn’t place. He didn’t want to be the first one to break the eye contact, but Sniper could feel his resolve crumbling.

Thankfully, the Medic pulled away soon after. He took just one step away, straightened his back, and folded his arms behind him. “So, do you want me to heal you, or would you like me to let Respawn do the work?” 

Sniper swallowed—both to clear his throat and out of nerves. “...Heal me,” he mumbled. “But ‘m stayin’ in this room.” Despite the Medic’s reassurances (threats?) about the Spy, he still couldn’t shake the lingering paranoia. 

The Medic rolled his eyes. “Fine. Sit,” he sighed, and put two hands on Sniper’s shoulders to push him down onto the desk. With the lightheadedness that came with the blood loss, Sniper hardly found a reason to complain. With that, the Medic turned on his heel to retrieve his supplies from within the operating room, muttering in German all the while.

Sniper sat on the Medic’s desk as he dug the bullets out of his chest, cleared the blood from his lungs with the medigun (on its lowest setting, of course,) and stitched him back together until he felt as though he were made more of thread than man. 

He watched the door diligently for any signs of BLU intruders, pointing his gun at anything that moved while the Medic sighed and rolled his eyes from his desk’s chair beside him.

When the light of dawn streamed through the windows, Sniper remained vigilant. The Medic had long since fallen asleep in the chair. 

The Spy did not come that night.

Nor did he the next night, when Sniper demanded the Medic let him keep watch for the BLU again, just in case.

Or the third night.

On the fourth night, the last thought Sniper had before he passed out from exhaustion in his own bed was the memory of the Spy’s trembling hands.