Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pain of getting stitched up was something almost every man on the team had to deal with after each bloodsoaked-battle.

Sure, the Medigun was there and it worked miracles–  it could fix anything up in the matter of seconds, whether a small papercut or a missing limb– but Dr. Fritz had made it clear that he was against overusing and abusing his machinery. 

Ever since certain mercenaries had begun throwing themselves into dangerous situations (something they had always done, only now with increasing frequency) without a second thought, Medic became more and more strict.

They cared little for the consequences of their actions and the pain that came with them, almost too sure that Dr. Fritz would be all prepped up ready to heal them from their injuries.

A grumpy soldier stormed out of the medbay with a “Huff”, his right arm now immobilized by tight bandages: he had expected to be healed instantly by the doctor so he could run back out and cause more havoc, but apparently Dr.Fritz had other plans.

“Maybe now you’ll learn!” Medic shouted from across the room, voice sharp with frustration after such a long battle.

A heavy sigh escaped him before turning back to his patient; the massive Russian sitting patiently on the bed.

“Doktor knows Soldier never learns.” Heavy remarked softly, a faint smile on his lips. His forearm stretched out on the table, Medic’s hands working with surprising care and delicacy–so unlike his usual brusque manner.

“No, he does not.” Medic murmured, eyes still glued to the injury: a deep cut, courtesy of the enemy Spy’s dagger.

Heavy had trusted his instincts and turned just in time, saving his spine from the sharp blade.

The Spy had panicked, going for his chest instead– this also failed, as the Heavy had thrown his arm up, taken the blow there and shoved the snake away before finishing him off with his beloved minigun.

“I mean, seriously!”  Medic complained, abruptly getting up from his chair and marching to his supply cart to fetch some more cotton, gesturing wildly in the meantime as to wring the anger out of himself.

Heavy simply watched in silence.

 “They never listen! Scout, Soldier-”

 “Demoman”, Heavy added. 

“Demoman!” Medic turned around, irritation clear on his face.

“My Medigun is not a plaything! It is not a toy!-  It is a professional medical device made for an emergency in battle! Overuse it, und it vill break!” He scowled, his accent thickening with every word.

It’s a thing Heavy had always, in secret, admired about the man.

“Und it’s not as good as ze RED team’s one! Gott knows vat they have done to make it vork so efficiently!” Fritz’s brows knit in anger, his fists clenched. “Fifteen minutes it takes us to prepare an Ubercharge– Fifteen!” he threw his arms about again, as if trying to paint a picture in the air for Heavy to understand. “And! it lasts barely forty-five seconds. Zeirs? five minutes, and it goes for a full minute!”

As Medic’s fiery and dramatic rant went on, Heavy calmly picked up the needle from the equipment table and began stitching the wound closed by himself, tying off the last thread with steady hands, letting his coworker spill out every frustration and offering only the occasional hum or nod to show that he was present and listening.

It took Fritz another seven minutes of shouting about how bad and miserable his day had been before finally noticing that Heavy had finished stitching himself up, the anger etched on his face now melted into sudden worry.

“Oh gott, it seems I have gotten… distracted- “ He muttered , stepping closer to Heavy and inspecting his work. It wasn’t the best- the stitches were clumsy and uneven in some places– unsurprising, given Heavy’s large hands and lack of medical training, but they would hold.

“You could've said something–” 

“Is ok.” Heavy interrupted gently. “Doktor needed to vent, let frustration out. I understand.”

The disaster of Heavy’s work began to set in.

“Ach, nein nein, Zis is barbaric! These stitches are too tight! You vill hurt yourself.”

“But wound is closed, no problem.” Heavy replied, calm as ever. 

“No problem? Zese stitches look like zey vere done by … by some blind man!” Medic’s slapped a bloodied hand to his forehead.

Heavy said nothing. He didn’t take Medic’s insult to heart– just stood up from his seat, his massive frame towering over the doctor. Medic, left up staring at him, wondered if perhaps he’d gone a little too far this time.

“Thank you, Doktor.”

“Ah… you’re velcome Heavy.” Medic mumbled, lifting a hand to give the giant a pat on his back. 

As Heavy left the medbay, Demoman came stumbling down the hall, bottle of scrumpy in hand and Eyelander in the other, sobbing and hissing something slurred and incoherent as the sword complained in response. 

He tripped over a loose cable on the floor and, by sheer luck, landed flat on the medical bed Heavy had just vacated.

“Tavish! You are a mess!” Medic barked from the distance, exasperated (but hardly surprised).

The russian continued on through the halls, unbothered. He soon passed by Spy’s smoking room, where the door was left ajar. Inside, Spy sat with his usual elegance: legs crossed, a plume of smoke curling from his expensive cigar as he flipped through the Daily Teufort Journal with practiced indifference.

Heavy knew that when Spy’s door stood open, it was an unspoken invitation for the man to come in.

Aside from the Engineer, Heavy was the only man permitted into the smoking room without knocking. For Spy, granting access to that space was a rare show of trust- a gesture Heavy understood and appreciated, even if he never once put it into words.

He let himself in.

The door’s old hinges gave a low creak as it swung open, but Spy did not bother to turn around.

“Welcome in Mikhail, you’ve done well today.” he commented calmly, voice smooth and deliberate as he  raised a crystal glass of red wine in a quiet toast, inviting the other man in for a drink. 

Heavy lumbered further into the room, pale blue-grey eyes drifting to a chair which usually wasn’t there, meaning that Spy, meticulous as ever, had anticipated him.

Spy had even prepared a glass of Vodka for the man. How nice. Heavy picked it up with his thick fingers and inspected it for a moment, sniffing and turning the glass slowly as though weighing both the drink and the gesture behind it, then tossed it back in a single, effortless gulp.

The motion didn’t escape Spy’s notice, From behind the veil of smoke, he looked curiously at the larger man, though he returned his eyes to the Teufort Journal the moment the glass was empty, as if nothing had happened.

“Today’s puzzles…” he began, swirling his wine before taking a measured sip.

“Da, i saw. Very difficult– But i managed.”

Spy lowered the paper just enough to study him with raised brows. 

“You did?” His surprise was evident.

Heavy leaned back in his chair, pride etched across his otherwise stoic face.  

“Yes. Took me long time … but if you think about it… today’s riddle is not too difficult. Maybe a break might help you.” 

And with that, the Russian had already reached over, plucked the journal from Spy’s hands, folded it, and tossed it aside. Normally, such a breach of etiquette would have earned anyone else a swift and cutting reprimand—but Spy held his tongue. Heavy was different. The Frenchman knew he meant no disrespect.

What Heavy hadn’t expected was what lay hidden beneath the cover of the discarded paper. 

Spread neatly across the table were dozens of sketches: women of all kinds, their ages ranging from thirty to sixty, their faces marked by different features, ethnicities, and hairstyles. Some were carefully detailed, others hastily drawn, but each carried the same deliberate touch.

Heavy reached for one of the sheets, lifting it between his thick fingers. He studied the sketch in silence, his brow furrowing with thought as his eyes traced the lines.

“Is this about previous conversation?” Heavy questioned, showing Spy a specific sketch that intrigued him: The sketch Heavy picked up showed a woman in her late forties. Her hair was swept back into a neat bun, a few loose strands escaping to frame her face.

She wore a sharp jacket with wide lapels, the kind of fashion that spoke of confidence and old-world taste. Spy had shaded the lines around her eyes and mouth with unusual care, giving her an expression that was both stern and tired, as though she had seen much of life but refused to bend under it. The detail went deeper than Spy’s usual cool detachment; every pencil stroke seemed deliberate, as if he knew her features by memory rather than imagination.

“I like the way your mind works, Mikhail.” Spy said suddenly in Russian, catching the big man off guard. Heavy often forgot that the Frenchman spoke his native tongue at all. “Your question intrigued me. I began sketching at night, in my free time.”

“You are a very good artist,” Heavy replied in careful English, determined to practice his second language as much as possible. He set the sketch back down with surprising gentleness.

“Merci, my kind-hearted friend.” Spy finished his wine with a quiet sip, then gathered the drawings into a neat stack, tucking them into a folder and placing them back on the table.

He leaned back, tapping ash into the tray before continuing.

 “You know… nobody else but us has thought about it the way you do. And it seems you have dragged me down this rabbit hole as well. I must admit, I am intrigued.

 At first, I assumed the voice was pre-recorded—and perhaps that theory still holds some weight—but either way, someone must be behind it. Someone who knows our every move, who times her words to match the events on the battlefield. From taking the enemy intelligence… to capturing a point.”

By now Spy had risen from his chair, speaking with more intensity as he paced the room. He returned a few books to their shelves with one hand while the other absentmindedly flipped his butterfly knife open and shut, the rhythmic click of metal filling the silence between his words.

Heavy’s eyes followed him lazily, his massive frame sinking back into the chair. He let the man’s voice wash over him, though Spy’s theories stirred unease. The Frenchman’s suspicions became his own, pulling Heavy deeper into doubt.

Because it was true: throughout every battle, a woman’s voice had guided them. She called out their progress, their failures, their every step. None of them had ever questioned it. And whenever a mercenary had dared to bring up the mystery, the rest brushed it aside with dismissive answers, preferring to argue about strategies, weapons, or whatever foolishness crossed their minds before the next fight.

After his long rant, Spy finally began to slow down. He drew in a deep inhale, exhaled smoke, and turned toward the larger man.

“It is getting late, mon ami. I’ll see you tomorrow, oui? We may discuss this further.”

Heavy gave a short nod. “Goodnight, Spy.” That was all. He wasn’t a man of many words, and he never tried to stretch a conversation past its end—especially not when he’d been invited into someone’s private space and then politely dismissed.

He stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. Around him, the base was settling into its nightly rhythm:

Engineer had just left his workshop, flipping the switches to shut down the heavy machinery for the night. Scout was being pestered by a far too energetic Pyro, who bounced about proudly, arms full of plush toys. Soldier and Demoman were locked in their usual late-night debate; Heavy didn’t need to listen closely to know it was another of Soldier’s endless rants about the United States.

Medic, ever the perfectionist, was wiping down his medbay, muttering to himself as he sterilized instruments and packed away supplies. And outside the window, Heavy caught sight of Sniper extinguishing the fire he’d built beside his van, before slipping inside and pulling the door shut.

Was it strange that he was the only one bothered by the woman’s voice, constantly watching over them? Was he… weird for that? Spy had already admitted he was intrigued, but unlike the Frenchman, Heavy didn’t pry into everyone’s business. He kept to himself. If it didn’t concern him or someone he cared about directly, it wasn’t his problem.

Maybe that was it. He had spent so much of his life isolated, hidden away from danger with his family. Now, that same sense of exposure—being watched—tormented him, stealing his sleep.

It felt ridiculous. Losing hours of rest over a voice. Just a simple voice. Yet the clock glared back at him: 2 a.m. And it seemed everyone else had already surrendered to sleep… except Engineer, of course. He’d pretend to rest, switch off his machinery, then sneak back into the workshop in the dead of night. Heavy had even caught him once, sprawled across the kitchen counter, snoring lightly when he’d gotten up for a drink of water.

The thought made Heavy sigh. Everyone else could ignore the voice. He couldn’t.

It had been three weeks since the payphone had broken, and Heavy didn’t have it in him to ask Engineer to fix it like the others had. Three weeks without hearing from his family. Staying in touch had always been difficult, but now, with the broken phone, it felt almost impossible.

Sniper had damaged it during an argument with his father, slamming the receiver down with more force than necessary. At first, Engineer had been more than willing to repair it. But Scout, ever the instigator, had turned the situation into a full-blown argument, exaggerating every detail until Engineer finally declared they’d have to fix it themselves and stormed angrily back into his workshop.

Heavy knew Engie wouldn’t have refused his request, but the man was busy, and Heavy didn’t want to trouble him further. Miss Pauling had checked in on the base last week and noticed the broken payphone. She promised to have someone replace it, but god, it was taking forever.

He had grown more familiar with the voice of the mysterious lady now, and it refused to leave his mind. Shit, he thought. This was such a silly thing to lose sleep over, wasn’t it?

Heavy lazily stood up and strode over to his bookshelf. Most of the books there were either from home, gifted by Spy or the others, or things he had ordered and received from Miss Pauling to practice his English.

A specific book caught his tired eye. “If This Is a Man”. 

He pulled it from the shelf and ran his fingers over the dusty cover, remembering why he had requested it. 

He enjoyed reading the stories of other war veterans and survivors on his free time—how they had endured the worst, how they had survived, and how they had finally found a better life. Each story gave him hope, hope not just for himself, but for his family as well.

As time went on, Heavy found himself sinking deeper into the book. He became absorbed in the lives of the people it chronicled—their struggles, their endurance, the way they recalled their imprisonment. Their stories intertwined with his own memories, echoing familiar pains and fears, and for a while, it almost felt like he wasn’t alone in his sleepless nights.

But, inevitably, the book reached its end.

And it was nothing like he had imagined: the Russian had allowed himself to hope that the story might offer some relief, some reassurance, some glimpse of a better life at the final pages. He had fantasized about a redemptive conclusion, imagining that the hardships and horrors would eventually give way to light.

Instead, reality struck harshly. The book concluded with an analysis, clinical and unflinching, revealing that the author had taken his own life.

 Heavy’s chest tightened, a cold weight pressing down on him. The hope he had nurtured for even a brief moment evaporated, replaced by the raw, bitter truth of despair.

He didn’t want to think about it.

He let out a slow, heavy sigh, the silence of the room pressing in as the last page closed, and the book went back into the shelf.

Chapter Text

The alarm blared through the base, rattling the walls and dragging Heavy out of sleep. 

Apparently he had dozed off at his desk, and now the fight was already calling for him. Today was defense—they had the advantage of time—but he’d slept through the first alarm. This was the second. Which meant they were already late.

He leapt from his chair, storming into the hall in nothing but a white tee and briefs, pounding on doors like a battering ram. Some of the mercenaries were already up—Scout and Soldier were bickering, Pyro gave him a cheerful wave (which he returned without slowing), and Medic shouted something unintelligible from the medbay.

At the workshop, he found Engineer dragging his feet, half-asleep, tools scattered around him.

“Engineer must move faster. Is time to fight,” Heavy rumbled, frowning at the man’s sluggish pace.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Engie yawned, rubbing his eyes as he bent to snap shut his toolbox. 

“Woh—!”

Before he could finish, Heavy had already swung him up and over one shoulder, carrying both man and toolbox without a second thought. The Demoman slurred a complaint as he opened his door, only to also be dragged by the Russian with an arm looped around his waist, pressed against his side. 

“Did baby men not hear alarm?” Heavy barked, his deep voice carrying both irritation and worry as he marched down the hall, two mercenaries slung against his massive frame like sacks of flour. 

He dropped them off unceremoniously at the kitchen table, earning a groggy protest from one and a sleepy mumble from the other.

Heavy didn’t have the time or patience to scold them further: time was already slipping through their fingers.

He wasted no time In the changing room. He threw open his own locker with a clang and began dressing at a furious pace- slipping into his uniform, tightening his belt, slinging the familiar weight of the bullet belt across his chest- the same routine, everyday, just now at a faster pace.

Despite the rush, his hands were surprisingly steady, and when Sasha’s handle had finally touched his palm, a calm certainty instantly settled over him, like the world had clicked into place.

.

Slowly, the smell of nicotine began settling in the room– an unmistakable sign of Spy’s presence. And sure enough, leaning against the far wall, half-hidden in the curl of cigarette smoke, The man was already waiting, immaculate as always despite the early hour.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. 

“Bonjour”, Spy said smoothly, as though the alarms and chaos had nothing to do with him.

“We are late, missed first alarm. No time for chat.” Heavy’s tone was curt, thick hands already busy with Sasha: he ran his calloused fingers over her body with almost religious care, checking for any scratches or marks. It was his morning ritual. 

Ever since Soldier had once asked to “borrow” her for target practice, Heavy hadn’t trusted leaving her unattended, especially during night-time.

Spy took a long pause, watching the big man’s deliberate movements. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if Heavy’s words carried anger or simple urgency, but Spy studied him all the same, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brows as though reading a riddle in the lines of his face.

Then, without breaking his calm veneer, he exhaled another slow stream of smoke.

“The first alarm never went off, my friend. Something must be broken.” Spy sighed. He turned his head toward the doorway, watching the faint chaos spilling through the halls outside the locker room, the rest of the team scrambling into motion-

Scout, chaotic as ever, had already slammed back not one but TWO cans of Bonk! (Blutonium berry) and was ready to give it his best– jogging around the place, restless laps around the room and just unable to stand still for more than a second, mouth running just as fast as his legs as he occasionally yelled orders at Engie.

“Yo, hard-hat! Dispenser goes RIGHT here, Alright? Not like last time cause–Nah, nah nah, move it a little more to the left- No wait wait wait. Put the teleporter here instead wont’cha? Yeahh, that’s right! Perfect spot- unless that freakin’ Spy gets funny and camps in the corner like last time then we’re screwed, like SERIOUSLY screwed, so maybe you could-”

The texan shut him up with a swing of his wrench.

Soldier was already in drill-sergeant mode, chest puffed out, helmet gleaming under the kitchen lights as if he’d polished it just for this occasion. He had Demoman and Pyro standing at attention– or atleast as close to attention as an alcoholic mess like Demo and a critter like Pyro could manage after being woken up so suddenly.

“Aye, aye, laddie.” “Hddah!” Pyro clapped their hands and let out a muffled, cheerful squeal through the mask

The alarms cut out for a brief moment only to blare again–  this was their third and final warning. Ten minutes left, and no more excuses.

The mercenaries filed out of the base, each man sliding into his role like gears in a machine.

Medic trailed close behind Heavy, Medigun already alive and casting it’s familiar glow along the Russian’s back- Quick, but not fast enough- Timing would be critical. RED had the advantage and if they burned Uber too early, it would mean nothing. 

Forty-five seconds of invulnerability could be the difference between holding the line or being scattered across the battlefield in the blink of an eye.

“Remember– watch out for their Sniper.” Medic warned for atleast the fourth time this morning, tone sharp and clipped as if he’d already replayed every possible scenario in his head. It had happened before, but he was never keen on seeing his friend’s head explode.

“He is clever lately…” Medic murmured to himself.

“Mission begins in 7 minutes.”

The team was really locking into place now: Demoman, who only minutes ago had been stumbling through the haze of drink and sleep, now carried himself steady- Pyro bounced impatiently on their heels, fingers twitching around their flamethrower’s trigger like a child itching to play.

Soldier, predictably, had taken the lead and was barking orders into the void that no one listened to, but , somehow, his sheer presence forced the squad into focus anyway. 

His war-wrath had grown sharper, crueler, ever since the bitter collapse of his friendship with Demoman and, honestly? EVERY single kill on the field seemed to fuel it further. 

The way he ‘dispatched’ enemy Spies or Scouts made even Heavy wince sometimes—fists brutally smashing into ribs, gunshots at point-blank when a clean one would have sufficed, flying giblets and limbs all about- There was a brutality in him now, a rage that didn’t stop at victory, but clawed deeper, as though punishing the very idea of  “the enemy”  .

And when his path crossed with the RED Demoman? The violence took on a personal edge and god, did it get bad. Heavy could hardly watch without hissing under his breath, imagining the pain of every blow. Soldier never spoke of it, but everyone could see it: the fury wasn’t just tactical, it was personal vengeance.

The first day after their falling-out had been heavy with shame: Soldier had locked himself away, refusing to speak to anyone on the base for two whole days—save for the BLU Demoman, his old friend, the only one who could break through the silence.

 But when the quiet finally shattered, it wasn’t into reconciliation. It was rage. Pure, boiling rage that Soldier poured out on the battlefield, a fire that burned so hot it consumed anyone in his way.

Even then-

“Mission begins in 4 minutes.”

The voice interrupted his train of thought. Heavy shook his head and rubbed his temples as the Medic announced him that the Ubercharge was ready to deploy whenever.

“Mission begins in 3 minutes.”

Tension hung thick in the air, as it always did before a match, each mercenary ready to fight: kill or be killed.

But the tension Heavy felt was different , something wasn’t right, and he could feel it in his chest, an itch he couldn’t scratch.

…

 Where the hell is Sniper?

The New Zealander ran as fast as he could, huffing and puffing as his lanky legs carried him forward. Fuck, fuck, fuck- He’d missed all three alarms. Maybe now he’d finally learn not to sleep outside the base.

Had everyone else forgotten about him? Or did they just not care? Not that it would surprise him—he was only a pawn at the back of the battlefield, while the others took part in the main action. And- And- hell, they were probably still mad at him over the payphone incident. Shit, shit, ssshit. All HIS fault, not theirs, it’s all HIS fault. HE’S the one to blame.

It wasn’t their responsibility anyway. It was all on him . He should be waking himself up—he wasn’t a kid anymore, and his mother wasn’t there to greet him with breakfast and a good morning. He was on the job, and he had to be serious about it. No excuses.

As he drew closer to the action, Sniper dropped to the ground in an instant, the sharp crack of a rifle echoing in his ears. The enemy’s shot had come close—but surprisingly, it only clipped his hat.

“Fucking wanker,”

 BLU Sniper hissed under his breath, teeth gritting. The enemy waved mockingly from across the field, shouting something he couldn’t quite make out, but the tone was unmistakable: pure humiliation.

Sniper adjusted his position, sliding his rifle into place with practiced precision. Calm now, but every muscle coiled, ready. 

Surprisingly, he had found himself in a perfect blind spot:

Through his scope, he could see the enemy Heavy and Medic crouched behind a wall, confident they were safe from danger, ready to deploy their own Ubercharge. He wasn’t much of a lip-reader really, but it was crystal clear that they were engaged in some urgent discussion—probably plotting how to strike first. And why would he let that happen?

“Steady… steady…” Sniper muttered under his breath, the blue dot on his scope crawling slowly toward RED Heavy’s forehead, inch by inch, like a predator closing in on its prey.

Words couldn’t capture the rush of satisfaction that surged through him when the Medic finally noticed the blue dot—too late. His warning was cut short by the thunderous explosion of Heavy’s head.

Sniper exhaled slowly, a grim smile tugging at his lips. Victory, fleeting and perfect, had never felt so sweet to him.

Relief washed over the Russian as the immediate threat was neutralized- Sniper had made it in time.

Around him, the battlefield roared with motion—explosions shattered the ground, smoke curled into the sky, and the sounds of conflict echoed from every direction.

He adjusted his stance, scanning the chaos for the next danger. Figures moved unpredictably across the field, taking cover, darting forward, striking and retreating in rapid succession. Debris flew from distant blasts, dust and smoke mixing into a thick haze and sentry guns fired relentlessly.

Shockingly, today, the RED team struggled to mount an effective attack, their lack of coordination leaving gaps that the BLU team exploited with ease.

Despite having woken up in a frenzy—panicked, disorganized, and scrambling—BLU’s defense had held strong, and Heavy felt a quiet surge of pride at the sight.

Once it seemed safe enough, the BLU team began to push forward, advancing methodically while keeping the enemy trapped in their own base. The plan was simple but effective: hold the front line just long enough to keep RED contained, and the advantage would remain firmly in their hands.

For a while, it seemed as though BLU had the upper hand, holding the frontline steadily as RED faltered under the coordinated push. Rockets whistled overhead, Scout zipped around harassing the enemies and everything seemed to work in their favor.

But then something felt off. Heavy’s sharp eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the chaos with practiced precision, and a cold realization began to creep over him: the enemy Medic was nowhere to be seen. No flashes of the Medigun beam, no faint whirring hum of energy, no glimpse of the familiar white coat weaving through the fray. So where was he?

Previously, Heavy had assumed the Medic had been taken down, but the pause in the fight was suspicious. Something was being planned, something he couldn’t see yet, and the creeping unease from earlier settled over him once again.

And then it happened. A glimmer of light, a firm, confident command and the unmistakable charge of an uber.

He barely had any time to register it before the beam hit the enemy Demoman, who surged forward with unstoppable momentum, BLU’s defenses crumbled almost instantly, starting from their Engineer’s buildings.

Rockets and bullets that had held the line just a few seconds before became practically irrelevant as the Demo carved right through the team, unstoppable and terrifying.

Heavy had attempted to fight back with all his might, but the force of the onslaught was too great, and soon enough, one by one, his teammates fell.

Finally he hit the ground, injured and struggling to breath, chest heaving with each ragged gasp. Through blurred vision,  Heavy watched as the enemy pressed their advantage, cutting through the remnants of BLU’s lines and capturing the first control point.

Heavy rolled onto his side, grunting in pain as he tried to pull himself up, pain lancing through his limbs. Blood ran freely from his nose and he spat onto the dirt; a thick, dark streak marked the ground beneath him. His ears were ringing from the explosions and everything had become a blur.

Somewhere behind him, the click of boots echoed sharply. Heavy’s instincts screamed at him to get up and fight, but the pain in his body was louder, and all he could do was twist his head.

“Ohh, they’re gonna have ta glue you back together.” The Demoman shook his head slowly, clicking his tongue in a mix of sympathy and exasperation, like a mother watching a child tumble and scrape themselves. There was a crooked sort of fondness in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of just how badly Heavy had taken the hit, even amidst the chaos of the battlefield, as if he felt bad for the larger man or something.

Or at least, that’s what Heavy thought—until Demoman’s loud, booming laugh filled the air. 

Heavy couldn’t react.

Too tired, too fucking tired. No way he could pick himself up now.

His massive body slumped against the dirt, the world tilting and the ringing in his ears gradually becoming louder, drowning out every sound of the battlefield—the booming gunfire, the explosions, even Demoman’s laughter.

His consciousness began to slip away, each heartbeat slower than the last, until the world felt like it was fading into shadow.

And yet, amid the roaring silence and the chaos of fading awareness, one sound cut through with unnatural clarity.

It wasn’t Demoman’s laughter. It wasn’t the whine of rockets or the distant screams of the fallen.

It was that voice again. Clear, sharp, and accusing.

"You’ve killed them all!"

Chapter Text

It was a failure.

It wasn’t their first, really, and it wouldn’t be their last.

Everyone on the team knew the sting of defeat, even if they didn’t talk about it.

Sometimes the battles would end up in a stalemate, both sides retreating to their own base with confusion and bitter disappointment- but those were rare.

More often than not, tradition dictated that the victors massacre the losers in a final, humiliating sweep, and today the BLU team had been on the wrong end of that tradition.

Heavy sat slouched at the mess hall table, lazily prodding at his plate with the dull scrape of a fork. His massive hand moved without thought, as if detached from his mind.

The food wasn’t bad- far from it actually, he had helped with the cooking: 

He and Engineer had worked together in the kitchen earlier, and both men knew their way around a skillet, but the weight of failure made every bite taste like… shit.

Scout wasn’t running his mouth like he always did, Soldier wasn’t barking half-mad orders at the others and Demoman too was quiet, fingers tapping rhythmically against his bottle of Scrumpy... the silence was almost worse than the fighting.

Hell, even Pyro, usually buzzing with restless energy, sat slumped against Heavy’s arm, their gas-mask tilted downward as if staring into the void of their own plate: the sight made Heavy frown.

“Ah, well,” Engineer finally broke the stillness, laying his fork aside with a soft ‘clink’.

Every head turned, grateful for someone else to speak first.

“Better luck next time. This ain’t our first loss, and sure as hell won’t be our last. Don’t let it kick our asses, alright?” 

The Texan stood with a weary groan, making his way to the counter to fetch a crate of beer.

"Yo, Engie’s right,” Scout piped up, a spark of his usual energy returning as he jabbed a thumb toward himself. 

“We’ll get ‘em back, I promise. It’s all ‘cause of that dumb Medic anyway- Oh, Oh, Oh! and Spy? 

-Yeah, Spy, you didn’t do NUTHIN’ out there!” He gave the masked man a too-friendly shove, half-joking, half-accusatory.

Spy exhaled sharply through his nose, the groan muffled behind his cigarette as he resisted the urge to bury a knife in the boy’s ribs.

"Perhaps one day,” Spy started coolly, cutting a piece of sausage with surgical precision, 

“you will learn to recognize your own mistakes, instead of inventing ours.” His tone was flat, his gaze never leaving the plate.

Sure, the enemy Spy had outmatched him this time (and the time before…and the time before that…)—but Scout had no right to tell him how to do his darn job!

Scout’s jaw clenched, the words already forming on his tongue. But before he could spit back an insult and set the table ablaze with yet another shouting match, the door slammed open with a force that rattled the silverware.

-

“Ay, Mickey!” Demoman’s face lit up with drunken delight as he shot up from his seat, nearly toppling over in the process.

He staggered toward the tall figure in the doorway and slung an arm around him with sloppy affection. 

“Aboot time ye came ‘roun here! Been a wee bit, hasnae it, lad?” He grinned wide, jabbing a finger against the man’s chest with his index finger, as if to prove he wasn’t a hallucination brought on by too much alc’. 

Sniper gave a small, lopsided smile and, before he could say anything, Demo was already dragging him across the mess hall like an overly excited toddler seeing their best-friend.

“Come on, sit yerself down,” Demo insisted, pulling him toward the only empty chair. 

Without hesitation, he slid his own untouched plate across the table, shoving it into Sniper’s hands: 

Heavy often forgot that the Scot didn’t handle solid food too well (and he would apologize every single time) but at least now it wouldn’t go to waste.

Sniper found himself wedged between Engineer and Scout, much to the Bostonian’s annoyance.

Scout groaned dramatically, leaning back with a scowl.

“Wow. Actually forgot you existed for a sec,” Scout muttered, turning in his chair to size up the lanky man beside him.

“Where were you this morning?” His tone was sharp, more accusation than curiosity.

Sniper scratched at the back of his neck, sheepish.

“Didn’t catch the first alarm—”

“Oh, didn’t catch the other two either? My GOD!” 

Scout cut him off before he could finish, throwing his arms up and glancing around the table with a wild expression.

 “Are you guys hearin’ this?! Three alarms, and this joker still oversleeps!”

He waited, expecting for somebody to back him up and gang up on the New Zealander, but the table stayed silent:

Engineer was focused on his beer, Soldier was muttering into his mashed potatoes, Pyro’s head was still tilted on Heavy’s arm, and Spy didn’t so much as glance up from his plate.

No one took the bait, too drained from the loss to indulge Scout’s usual habit of picking fights.

Scout huffed, crossing his arms tight across his chest, then leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated groan. “Unbelievable..."

Not long after another awkward stretch of silence, Sniper cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat.

Eyes, still covered by his sunglasses, were on his food rather than the others.

“Listen,” he began, voice low and hesitant, “someone trashed my room. Would really appreciate it if one of you let me crash in theirs for the night.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable request, really, but the weight of it hung heavy in the air. 

Everyone knew the couch was already claimed almost every night by a drunk Demoman, who guarded his own room like a knight hoarding treasure.

Sniper’s quarters, courtesy of Scout’s pranks and Pyro’s mischief, were a wreck. And after missing the alarms earlier, he wasn’t about to risk sleeping outside again for sure.

The silence that followed made it clear no one was jumping at the chance.

Then, without hesitation, Heavy spoke up.

“You can sleep in mine,” he responded almost dismissively, as if it were no great favor.

Sniper’s shoulders eased, and he gave a faint, grateful smile. He dipped his head politely. “Thanks, mate,” he murmured, before returning to pick at his food.

Heavy didn’t miss the subtle relief on the man’s face.

He knew the others might not have been so quick to welcome Sniper in—not after the payphone debacle, and definitely not after this morning’s fiasco. Heavy didn’t want the New Zealander feeling more cut off than he already did, in fact, Heavy knew how it felt to be cut off quite well.

“You know, that couch’s gotta be moved anyhow,” Engineer drawled, leaning back in his seat. 

“Miss Paulin’s comin’ in tomorrow with our orders, and we’re gonna need space for that new water cooler she’s bringin’.”

“Miss P. is passin’ by?!” Scout practically leapt out of his chair, cutting Engie off mid-sentence.

His voice cracked with excitement as he bolted toward the wall calendar:

Being the weirdo he is, he always tracked her schedule like a hawk, counting the days until she showed up with new contracts, items and, more importantly, checked on the state of the base.

“That’s right.” Engie muttered, shaking his head with a half-smile, clearly used to Scout’s antics by now.

-

The morning after, the mercenaries were spared from the rude awakening of the blaring alarms. 

Heavy stirred from his makeshift bed—a stiff wooden chair in the kitchen he’d taken so Sniper could rest properly in his room: his back ached, but he didn’t mind. A favor was a favor.

The low growl of an engine rumbled through the walls, pulling him fully awake. Heavy rose, stretching his shoulders, and stepped outside to investigate.

“Oh, good morning, Heavy!”

The voice was light but clipped, professional yet friendly, the kind of tone that always carried a hint of business no matter how casual the setting.

“Hello, Miss Pauling.”

 Heavy greeted her with a nod, eyes sliding to the noisy truck parked just beyond the entrance: a crew of men were unloading crates stacked with supplies ranging from ammunition to the team’s personal belongings—among them, the water cooler Engie had mentioned the night before.

A sudden bump nearly knocked Heavy off balance.

Pyro darted past him, squeaking happily as they retrieved a large bag stuffed with brightly colored plushies.

They tugged out a lilac one and shoved it eagerly into Miss Pauling’s hands.

“For me? Aww, thanks, buddy!” she chuckled softly, smiling warmly as she ruffled the top of Pyro’s mask. 

The firebug let out a delighted giggle, a muffled “huddah!” spilling from behind the mask before they ran back inside with their new treasures.

No sooner had Pauling turned to reach for another box than Scout came swaggering over, elbowing Heavy aside once again.

 “Oh, hey, Miss Pauling!” he grinned, voice slick with forced charm, one hand combing through his hair as he leaned on the truck.

Heavy could tell the kid had woken early to clean himself up, hair combed and shirt smoothed… probably because normally he’d still be drooling into his pillow at this hour. He exhaled heavily through his nose, unimpressed.

“What brings you ‘round these parts?” Scout pressed, tilting his head just a little too close for comfort.

Woah.

Pauling stepped back half a pace, but her smile didn’t falter. 

“Funny that you ask. I’m actually on a state-mandated vacation!”

She shifted her weight and handed Heavy a small box, which he took carefully.

Inside was a collection of spices he’d requested weeks ago—rare things, the sort his mother used in her cooking back home. Heavy cradled the box in his hands for a moment longer than he intended. He missed his mother’s cooking.

“However,” she continued, straightening her glasses and adjusting the papers tucked under her arm.

“I’ve just received your new orders. I thought I could stop by, hand these over personally, and check in on how you’re all doing.”

And so Pauling’s inspection went on, clipboard in hand, writing down notes as the workmen shuffled back and forth.

Heavy and Engineer helped them out by carrying the bulkier crates into storage, their footsteps echoing through the hall while the others lingered around, half-curious, half-indifferent.

Just as she ticked off another box on her sheet, a slim, gloved hand rested lightly on her shoulder, making her tense up.

“Miss Pauling,” came the low, velvety drawl.

The french man inclined his head ever so slightly.

“There is something I’d like to discuss with you.” 

He guided the assistant to step aside with him, away from the bustle of crates and curious ears.

Pauling exhaled, steadying herself, and let him lead: anybody in the room knew better than to mistake his politeness for harmlessness.

With Spy, every word, every gesture, carried weight. Whatever he wanted to discuss wasn’t going to be casual small talk.

.

Heavy watched as the two slipped away, curiosity tugging at him. 

Was Spy about to bring up their talk about their employer? And if he did… was that even a good idea in the first place?

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of a strained grunt.

Oh.

He’d let himself get distracted, leaving Engie to wrestle the water cooler alone.

“Sorry,” Heavy muttered, stepping back in and wrapping his hands firmly around the weight. Engineer let out a breath of relief, shaking his head but saying nothing as the burden lightened in his arms.

Chapter Text

…

…

… 174, 175, 176, 177.

174…175…176…

Her fingers moved quickly along the line of folders as she counted.

…177…178. She froze.

Where’s 178?

Her stomach dropped. That folder was important, way too important. 

178.

She looked around for a moment.

…

Maybe she messed up.

1..2..3..4…

…

“Spy? Spy, Listen, we should really make this quick. I’ve got somewhere to be, and I can’t afford to be late.” 

Miss Pauling’s voice stayed calm, polite, sitting down as she slid her clipboard and folders into her bag with practiced ease.

“I won't be long.” Spy responded coldly. He reached up for a bottle of wine resting on the shelf before setting down in front of her.

The smoking room- Spy’s smoking room, wrapped around them like a curtain: the perfect spot for private conversations.

The man swirled the wine in his glass quietly, but, when he finally spoke, his tone was way too casual for Pauling's liking.

“Mademoiselle,” he began, “Each battle there is a voice. A woman, sharp, precise. She sees everything, as though she is perched on our shoulders.”

He paused for a moment.

“Tell me, Miss Pauling, who is she?”

Her hand stilled for a split second, barely enough to notice (unless one was looking for it). 

“That's classified, Spy and you know as well as I do. The advertisement spelled it out. We don't ask private questions about our jobs, not unless we want to keep them.”

Pauling adjusted her glasses, keeping her tone professional as she spoke, but her eyes flicked to him briefly, just long enough to reveal to the man that she knew this question didn't come out of “simple curiosity.”

He was testing boundaries. And she was not liking it. Not one bit.

“I really need to be somewhere,”

Spy rose as she did, unhurried, placing the wine back on the shelf as he did.

“But of course..i only wonder…” He fixed his suit with deliberate care, smiling faintly.

“If a man doesn't know who he serves, is he truly serving at all, Miss Pauling?” 

It would be a shame if I began to feel… untethered, in my duties.”

And that's all it took for Pauling's polite mask to falter.

“I know what you're doing.” she stated firmly.

“I know what you're doing, and I can't give you that answer. Not today— Not ever. I'm gonna leave now.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder, voice steady despite the uncomfortable weight of the man's gaze. 

“Maybe one day we can discuss something else.”

Spy watched her for a beat, then gave a theatrical bow, grin curling sharp as his knife.

“Another time, then. Au revoir.”

The smoke of his cigarette hung in the air as he opened the door for her, leading her out the room and waving goodbye.

.

He watched carefully as Miss Pauling and Spy emerged from the latter’s smoking room: he had imagined their conversation would stretch on longer, and the fact that it hadn’t only left him more unsettled.

“Oh, Heavy?”

The giant blinked out of his dissociation, looking down to see Medic beside him.

“Vould you be so kind as to feed the doves today, mein Schatz?” the German asked absentmindedly.

Before Heavy could answer, one of the doves had already fluttered down, landed squarely atop his head and settled there with a contented “coo!”.

“OK. Will feed baby birds.” Heavy mumbled, a smile tugging at his lips. It was as if the creature had understood the word “feed” and taken him up on it instantly.

Slowly but carefully, the Russian llifted his strong hand, waiting for the dove to hop onto his fingers before lowering it and stroking its soft feathers with unusual gentleness.

Medic, humming to himself as he tinkered with his medigun on the table, turned at the sound. The sight of Heavy cradling the bird softened his sharp features, pulling a genuine smile to his face.

“I think she likes you,” Medic said warmly, before turning back to gather an old medigun prototype and a battered backpack.

Slinging both over his shoulders, he started toward the door.

“Doktor needs help?” Heavy asked, half-rising, ready to put the bird aside.

“Ach, no, no. Just bringing these to Engineer’s workshop,” 

Medic replied briskly, though his voice carried a thread of fire.

“We have plans to upgrade it. I will not let the RED team outdo us on every field… especially not medicine...”

His teeth clenched as he said it, the words more of a vow than an explanation.

Before Heavy could offer a reply, Medic was already out the door, muttering to himself with manic determination, making the former chuckle.

The man could be a 'little' mad when it came to his work, but after their last humiliating loss, his drive to prove himself made sense. Heavy still loved him for it.

Turning back to his task, he searched the messy drawers of the medbay until he found the bag of birdseed Medic usually kept.

Pouring a handful into his palm, he waited patiently as the doves fluttered down one by one, their beaks pecking at the seeds with eager precision. Ticklish.

.

The room had fallen into stillness, broken only by the soft coos of the doves and the faint banter outside, where Scout and Soldier bickered over their makeshift game of baseball.

Heavy let himself sink into that silence, basking in its weight.

Quiet always brought him peace; noisy rooms were never his strength.

The only noise he could ever truly welcome was back home in Siberia—the familiar chatter and laughter of his sisters: 

That kind of noise? He could live in it forever. 

But mercenaries shouting, clattering, brawling?

Brutish. 

Suffocating.

Silence was better.

Just… quiet.

…

…

Way too quiet.

Heavy’s brow tightened.

Has the door always been closed?

He freezed for a beat and replayed the moment in his head.

Medic’s arms were full.

He hadn’t closed it. 

Then who had?

In one sudden, decisive motion, Heavy kicked the medical bed aside. The loud crash rang through the medbay, and from beneath the toppled frame came a muffled grunt.

“Urgh—!!!”

The cloth draped over the bed slipped down, clinging to an unseen head, catching on something invisible. 

Heavy’s instincts roared: Spy.

He lunged forward without hesitation, his hand clamping tight around a throat that wasn’t there, until the shimmer broke, and the cloaking device fizzled out with a crackle.

“Ghk—”

Their own Spy came into view, pinned and coughing.

Heavy held him for a beat longer before letting go, but there was no apology in the release, and no softness in his stare.

The Frenchman straightened slowly, smoothing his suit with shaking fingers, the wine of arrogance quickly slipping back into his voice.

“Mon dieu… you are… far too paranoid, mon ami.”

Heavy said nothing, his glare heavy with distrust, hands flexing as though deciding whether to seize the man again.

Paranoid or not, his instincts had been right.

“Told Spy not to do it before, only gonna get himself hurt.”

The Frenchman knew he was right: sharp instincts and paranoia were no flaw. They were survival, carved into Heavy from years of hiding his family from the world’s dangers.

Spy sighed, almost dramatically. 

“I was hiding from the Doctor. I have something I’d like to share with you, but first…” his gloved hand gestured to the overturned bed. “you’ll need to pick that up.”

Heavy rolled his eyes with a low grunt, but did as asked.

He heaved the bed upright again, the metal frame screeching against the floor before settling back into place. Then he crossed his arms, expression hard, waiting.

Spy’s lips curled faintly as he reached into his coat. “Tell me, mon ami… do you know what Australium is?”

Heavy frowned.

“What?”

Without another word, Spy dropped a thick folder onto the bed. It slapped open on impact, scattering yellowed papers and glossy polaroids across the sheets and floor. They slid like fallen cards, fanning out at Heavy’s boots.

Heavy blinked at the sudden mess, crouching to pick up the first paper. 

As he did so, Spy’s voice carried on, low and deliberate, as he paced the medbay like a mentor circling a class.

“Australium. Miss Pauling was wrapped in a case with the U.S. Senate itself. The CEO of the company that supplies our weapons, your precious Sasha included. And one other party…” Spy tapped the folder with a finger.

“Her name, her signature—censored, every last trace. All tied to Australium.”

Heavy’s eyes narrowed as he studied the document:

The others' names were printed clearly, but across the lines where the mysterious figure had been questioned, entire sentences had been struck out with thick black ink. Only a few fragments were visible, and a specific phrase caught his eye.

‘Eighteen idiots.’

Heavy scowled, the words sitting uneasily in his chest.

Spy didn’t stop moving, his polished shoes clicking softly as he went on. 

“We don’t know what Australium truly is yet, but it is valuable enough to steal from the government, to cover up in trials, to hoard in silence. Worth killing over. This is no longer about a voice barking orders at us, nor a war for gravel, Heavy. It is much, much larger.”

Heavy didn’t answer right away.

He sat still, jaw set, as he pieced together Spy’s words like fragments of a shattered mirror. 

But another thought pressed heavier, darker, cutting through the fog.

His gaze snapped up. 

“Where did you get this folder?”

Spy paused.

“What?”

“Where did you get this information, Spy. Who’s folder is this?”

Heavy rose to his feet, closing in the distance with the man and looming over him.

“Did you steal this?”

Spy didn’t respond immediately , he simply crouched to gather the scattered polaroids, slipping them back into the folder with practiced calm.

“I did what I had to do, Heavy. It gave us the answers we needed.”

“What's the matter with you?!”

“Is this not what you wanted? What we wanted? Answers to our questions?”

Spy’s voice almost broke into a shout, but he kept calm.

“It does not matter how we arrived here. The point is, we finally have a lead. Proof that this is far bigger than we initially thought.”

His eyes glinted behind the mask, sharp and convinced.

“We are closer to knowing who she is.”

Heavy shook his head firmly. “No.”

Spy tilted his head, brow raised beneath the mask. “No?”

“Is too much.” Heavy’s voice was final, the weight of it like a closing door.

“Heavy, you-”

“I said no. Is too dangerous, question was already answered. The voice is of mysterious woman, that is it. I do not wish to know anymore of this.”

Spy knew better than to push, especially when it came to Heavy. Irritating him any further would only drive him deeper into stubborn silence.

With a faint sigh, he straightened the folder under his arm.

“Very well, then… I shall lead this investigation myself.” he said, voice even.

 “But… if you should change your mind, we-”

He turned his head.

The room was already empty.

Chapter Text

“It’s gone.”

Saying it directly felt like getting a block of cement off her chest.

“It’s not there.”

“I’m gonna need you to be more specific. Lost? Ruined? …Stolen?”

At the last word, she spun around.

“It’s gone.”

“Hm.”

The man cracked his back as he stretched, his eyes burning slightly as he had just woken up. 

He stood there for a moment, letting the state of the room sink in.

Disorganized.

What?, no, not disorganized.

Messy. Too messy. Disrespectful of him.

He glanced at the clock above the headboard: 6:12 AM.

Clearly still early enough to give the room a quick clean before the first alarm signaled everyone to gear up for the day.

He got down to it right away, straightening the bed, moving his precious coffee mug, old used cigs, and dirty toothpicks out of the way. 

Footsteps echoed outside the hall, signaling that, just like many other times, someone had woken up early too.

Spy was always the earliest- sitting with his crossword from the Daily Teufort Journal and coffee like clockwork, while Soldier, instead, usually rose early just for the sake of his bizarre “american routine.”

Huh.

He scoffed under his breath at the thought.

Ridiculous.

Sometimes, Engie would be up too, and he'd share a nod or a quick “mornin’!” with the latter.

His hip clipped against the drawer, knocking loose a mosquito coil he’d forgotten about. “Ah, piss-” 

Ash scattered across the carpet. 

He grunted, crouching to scoop it up, trying to rub the stain out with spit.  “Bloody hell…”

Pointless. 

He carried the ashes in his hand and headed to the kitchen sink to wash off. Maybe if he doesn't turn on the main lights …Nevermind. Someone was already there.

“Good morning.” 

Heavy muttered as he washed dirty dishes from the previous night.

“Mornin’, mate.” Sniper nodded back, waiting until Heavy shifted so he could use the sink. 

His tired eyes flicked to the three plates already set out on the table: nothing special, just bacon and eggs, but not bad either.

“Who’s this for?”

“Team.” Heavy’s answer was cold, clipped. The New Zealander took it as a hint not to push further and sat down.

Spy was there too, as expected. But unlike every other morning, he hadn’t touched his food, a detail that didn't go unnoticed by Sniper.

Coffee barely touched, cigarette covered in bitemarks right at the filter. He just stared, past his breakfast, past the table, and straight at Heavy’s back.

He had hoped that Heavy’s rejection in their last conversation had been a Heat-of-the-moment, a “shock response”. He tried to come up with any excuse to explain why the man refused his request.

But now, watching him wordlessly go about his morning, Spy felt like he’d been wrong. 

He sighed and finally sipped his coffee, resignation heavy in the gesture.

Medic walked in, humming a tune faintly as he circled around the table and settled at Heavy’s side, his hand twitching toward him as if to wrap him in a hug, then faltering. 

“Heavy.” Medic murmured, leaning until he caught a glimpse of the Russian’s eyes. “Have you gotten my coffee?” He smiled faintly, trying to coax something out of the giant.

“On the right.”

Medic picked it up but didn’t let his concern drop. Heavy’s eyes lacked that familiar light—the spark Medic usually saw when he was near. It unsettled him more than he’d admit.

“And you…you are..You are doing alright, ja? Slept well?” His tone softened, voice lowering despite the others at the table.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

“Ah, always that with you. You won’t take ze pills I recommend.”

A small smile tugged at Heavy’s lips, Medic’s rambling lodging in his mind like a melody.

“Anyway,” Medic continued, his energy beginning to pick up again.

“Dell and I managed to touch up some things on ze Medigun prototype. And today? Ve are going to test it. See if it outperforms ze one we use now, ja? I have a good feeling about this. Go get ready.”

The crazed doctor waved his hand dismissively, like a sergeant sending his privates off to work. Heavy only mumbled in response.

The base had finally stirred to life, the team settling into their routine, nothing like the chaos of their last missed alarms.

 For the Russian, it was enough to kindle hope for their next battle. 

Soon after, the familiar alarm blared through the halls, and the mercenaries surged out with excitement, racing to their posts to fight over the same stretch of gravel, voices raised in chants and insults directed towards the opposite team.

.

“Yo, planet Earth is calling.” 

Scout snapped his fingers rapidly, startling the Russian. “You gotta, like, stop zoning out. Especially not on the field, pal. That is not gonna be of any help!” the Bostonian scolded, twirling his baseball bat.

Engineer came around the corner with his toolbox in hand, giving Heavy a quick nod. “He’s right this time. Shoulda’ slept more, hm?” He offered a small smile before whistling his way down the stairs toward the intelligence room.

“See? Told ya. We need you one thousand percent focused. No seriously, I mean it. Now i know i usually don’t say this, but you’re important to the team. Right after me, of course. Wait—did he just say this time? I’m always right! Goddamn mouth-breathin’ redneck—”

Scout’s tirade blurred into the background as Medic approached, announcing himself only through the light brush of his fingers against Heavy’s.

“I knew it wasn’t just sleep. What’s troubling you, mein Schatz?” he asked softly, pressing closer to the giant.

Heavy hesitated but quickly buried the slip, letting his voice boom thick and steady. “Is no big deal. All Heavy needs is to crush tiny little men.” He grinned as Sasha roared to life in his hands.

“Is it anything a tea party could fix?” Medic teased, his tone light and coaxing.

Heavy allowed himself the faintest smile. “We’ll see.”

But before he could say more, the voice cut through the base, sharp and metallic.

“Mission begins in thirty seconds.”

His heart gave a sudden jump.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spy flipping his knife idly, dark gaze flicking up to meet Heavy’s across the room. 

A silent reminder. A warning.

The others instead burst into motion: Engineer hauling his gear into position, Sniper settling in with his scope, and the rest rushing toward the front lines. Medic had already turned his attention to Soldier, who was loudly demanding to be today’s Uber target.

‘Eighteen idiots.’

Scout was right. He should be focusing on killing instead. That’s his job.

The moment the voice announced it was time to fight, Heavy let Sasha’s thunder drown it out, along with every other worry gnawing at him. Nothing could steady him better than the cries of the dying.

.

He leaned against Engineer’s dispenser, reloading Sasha with steady, practiced movements before peeking around the corner. Not too bad out there.

Compared to capture-point fights, intelligence runs always carried a strange kind of calm in Heavy’s opinion.

His eyes followed Medic just in time to see the Uber deploy, the man’s laughter echoing down the corridor as a bulletproof Soldier barreled forward, glowing invincible: together they cut through the enemy defense like a blade. They didn’t make it out alive unfortunately (and expectedly), but they had dragged several REDs down with them-  more importantly, Medic’s new Uber tweaks had worked!

Same duration as RED’s at last. Heavy could already imagine the madman’s triumphant cackling when he reappeared from respawn.

She crackled overhead.

“We have taken the enemy intelligence.”

Scout streaked past, sprinting along the bridge roof with a red briefcase in hand, his cocky grin visible even at a distance. 

He tossed out jeers at the REDs trailing him, weaving past bullets and narrowly dodging the enemy Sniper’s shots. Frustrated shouts echoed as they gave chase, but the Bostonian was too quick, too slippery.

It was still early in the match, but victory already felt close enough to touch.

As Heavy made his way toward the respawn room, Scout was already vanishing down the stairs with the briefcase, enemies too far behind to do anything.

He set Sasha carefully at his side and waited at the gate, already picturing the moment: Fritz stepping out, wild-eyed and triumphant, Soldier barking about glory while Medic ranted about his “magnificent breakthrough.”

Heavy’s lips twitched in the faintest smile.

The gate creaked open. A hiss of smoke bled out, boots visible under the rising door.

Heavy opened his arms wide.

“Oh—”

He grunted, staggering as the weight of the man fell against him. Reflexively, he wrapped his arms tight around the figure, eyes closed, savoring the embrace he’d been waiting for.

But the warmth was wrong, and the man did not hold him back.

Heavy’s eyes snapped open.

Medic stood before him, Soldier at his side, both staring at him in bewilderment. He was very much alive, just not in his arms, and so Heavy looked down.

Spy’s corpse hung against his chest, headless, blood soaking through his vest. The Frenchman’s body leaned on him like a grotesque mockery of intimacy, elegant even in death.

Medic said nothing. Heavy didn’t move at first.

His hands only shifted to adjust the body, to see the ruined neck more clearly, as if needing to be certain, even though he already knew.

“Fix it.”

Dr. Fritz rushed forward, slipping his arms under Spy’s lifeless body and barking for Engineer. 

The room was filled with chaos as Engie scrambled over, fumbling with cables and levers, muttering curses under his breath.

 The other mercenaries gathered, silent for once, eyes fixed on the corpse being handled like some faulty part in need of repair.

The respawn gate creaked again. 

Demoman stumbled out, alive and whole.

 Every gaze snapped to him, waiting for something, anything—to go wrong. He followed their stares, then spotted the body at his feet.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

“Damn machine malfunctioned,” Engineer growled, slamming his fist against the console. “Somethin’s wrong, but it’s only hittin’ Spy. Don’t make a lick of sense! Right in the middle of a fight, too…”

The silence broke with Scout’s voice, sharp and mocking, seizing the chance.
“Guess the machine finally got tired of bringin’ back that backstabbin’ dick, huh?”

A few heads turned his way, but no one laughed.

.

Noise and chaos bled in from outside: the enemy team was pushing hard, footsteps and gunfire rattling the walls as BLU scrambled in panic. 

Engineer’s sentry still hummed and fired, but everyone knew it wouldn’t last.

One RED Übercharge, and the line would crumble. They were down a man, and it was already costing them.

Soldier burst through the doorway, chest heaving. He didn’t speak, just stomped to his locker, tore it open, and pulled out a folded white flag.

The others froze as he marched over to Spy’s body, hoisted the headless corpse across his shoulders, and headed for the roof.

When he emerged into the sunlight, the battle stopped breathing. The RED Demoman caught his eye, and both of them stood there, motionless, weapons lowered. Even the enemy Sniper slackened his grip, lowering his rifle just an inch.

Every eye locked on Soldier and the weight he carried and, with one swift, deliberate motion, he planted the white flag into the dirt.

Chapter Text

Footsteps smacked heavy against the ground, mud splashing up with each step.

Thunder cracked above them, drowning out the faint cries of someone farther ahead.

The big man’s eyes kept drifting left, to the veiled figure beside him. He couldn’t help himself, deep down he wished that the veil had been white instead.

“Is the veil really necessary?” he asked with a half-smile, tilting his head while searching for the other’s gaze.

The veiled man didn’t look back.  “Yes. We are here to mourn.”

The larger man swallowed his words, silence falling between them until the other broke it again.

“Go. Take my flowers. You must do this alone.” He adjusted his glasses with gloved fingers, sharp eyes cutting through the rain as they rose to meet his companion’s.

“Alone?” the big man asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yes. Alone. You are responsible. Now move.”

A firm hand slapped against his back, shoving him forward a step. “Schnell.”

The larger man gulped, wounded by the cold command, before finally dragging himself forward toward the grieving silhouette bent over the ground.

His hands clutched the bouquet so tightly the paper crumpled under his grip. Kneeling, his knees sank into the mud, the cold filth soaking into his pants as he inched closer to the grieving mother.

For a long moment he hesitated, then finally slipped an arm around her. 

Relief washed over him when she leaned into him, body trembling and cries breaking free in ragged sobs.

“How many?”  Heavy asked, his voice as soft as his size would allow, careful not to crush her under the weight of his tone. 

He meant no more harm than he had already caused her, but, in his mind, there was no escaping it. 

His blood practically clung to him, unseen but unmistakable, seeping through his skin and soaking every single surface he touched. When he held her, he could’ve sworn it was staining her too.

And she knew. 

Her silence told him the truth, that she knew exactly whose hands had brought this grief upon her.

And yet, she didn’t push him away.

Too tired, too hollow, she let herself be held by the same hands that had taken everything from her.

“8 boys.” 

Oh, God.

Heavy’s heart sank for a moment. 

He looked away, if only to try and recover- physically, mentally—from what he had just heard. Was he fighting back tears? He couldn’t tell. It had been so long. But the sharp pain in his chest was all too familiar.

When he turned back to her, his voice was low, careful.

“Heavy understands. My mother… she is the same. Three baby sisters. And me.”

He kept the words short and deliberate enough to reach her, but not enough to make her grief about him.

The woman finally met his gaze. 

Darkness veiled most of her face, but not all. He could see the mascara streaking down her cheeks, the swollen shadows beneath her eyes, and the deep lines etched from too many days of crying.

 “Why’d you do it then? If you ‘understand?’” she asked.

Heavy froze once again. Her eyes, heavy with despair, searched his for a genuine answer. 

And he wanted to give her one.

He wanted to tell her that, just like always, her husband had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, that he pushed his luck and paid the price.

That maybe, just maybe, if he’d kept quiet, he would still be fucking alive.

Alive to see the newborn child in her arms grow, safe, happy, whole.

Maybe he should’ve told someone else, someone who wouldn’t have made everything worse.

And maybe he should’ve just done his damn job and nothing more.

“So what is it—what is it?! Just because you or your family couldn’t get over it, you had to pass the pain down to me?” 

Her voice snapped, edged with an anger that looked like it could make her slap him then and there.

The Russian bristled. 

He hated—hated, when anyone dragged his family into things; he never let them be used as an argument. 

Still, there was no way he could tell this mother how to speak to the man who’d taken her husband away from her.

Who was he to demand gentleness from her grief?

If anything, he thought, he should be the one buried there.

Should have jumped straight into that hole with Spy's coffin and taken the blame fully.

He had no right to tell her how to mourn. And yet, because of him, another mother would raise her children alone.

“Go.”

The word was sharp, sudden, and came with a shove that made him groan. He didn’t protest, didn’t try to hold on. Heavy drew back quickly, lowering his hands as if guilty for even touching her in the first place.

“Go home,” she added, voice trembling, then pointed past him with a hand that shook. 

“But please… take my sons with you. Those three.”

Heavy turned his head.

Three boys were playing in the mud not far off- two small, hardly past toddler age, the third? maybe eight: old enough to know something was wrong, but too young to understand what.

He moved toward them slowly, his massive frame careful, hesitant, as though afraid to frighten them. The boys stared at him wide-eyed, then, surprisingly, crawled into his arms one by one. 

The oldest lingered, holding back just a second longer and studying the stranger in silence with his one eye, then wrapping his arms around the latter’s neck and holding on tightly.

The sting returned to his eyes, sharper now.

“I can’t…” the widow’s voice cracked.

 “I don’t know if I can look at them right now.” Her gaze dropped to the ground, broken.

“Take care of them for me. Then… come back.”

.

The rain insisted, along with his heartbeat: loud in his ears, a steady drum he was certain the child in his arms could hear. Maybe it brought him some kind of comfort.

He raised his fist, took a breath, and rapped on the door four times in a steady rhythm: a knock that said he was there. That he was home.

The door creaked open.

“Misha!” Bronislava exclaimed, stepping forward as if to hug him, then stopping when she saw the children. Her smile softened. “Aww, they’re so cute! Are these the guest’s family?”

Heavy frowned. “A guest…?”

“Yes! Miss Pauling and another lady came by to say hello and speak with Mama about your job.” Bronislava gave him a teasing nudge on the shoulder, but he felt frozen. 

He stepped inside.

Miss Pauling sat at the table of his house, as if nothing happened.

Beside her, another woman he couldn’t clearly make out spoke in a voice that cut through the room.

Strict, familiar. 

His mother appeared from the kitchen, setting down a tray of steaming meat, surprise lighting her face.

“Misha, my boy!” She hurried over as he put the children down and hugged her fiercely, unwilling to let go. He wanted nothing more than to stay in her arms, to keep her safe.

Across the table, Miss Pauling smiled, but it felt like a threat to him. He knew it was a threat, what she was capable of.

His heart hammered as he scanned the room: guests, children clustered with Zhanna and Bronislava, Mama bustling at the table—and one place left empty.

“Where’s Yana?” he asked, voice sharp.

“She’s out fetching supplies,” Mama answered, smiling as she arranged plates. “She insisted on doing it today. So kind of her.”

“Sit, Misha,” Mama urged. “Have a seat and we can talk.”

Talk about what?

The children he brought home? His job? The ‘innocent’ man he ‘murdered’? All that time that passed without him speaking to her? Maybe she was pissed about that. Wait, is she even mad at him? He hasn't seen her this happy in a long time.

He sank into the chair opposite Pauling, every nerve taut. He could've sworn he saw a gun in her bag…maybe it was nothing.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks, yet the thought sparked hot and dangerous fantasies: flip the table, catch them off guard, end them both. 

Maybe the other woman was the voice. Maybe Pauling had come to reveal everything before executing his family. Maybe—

“Mikhail!” Mama snapped, smacking his arm.

“Don’t stare at our guests like that, such disrespect!!” she hissed in Russian.

He blinked, swallowed the image, and forced himself to look polite. The room smelled of cooked meat and rain.

Time crawled, each tick of the grandfather clock hammering into his skull. The sound stretched seconds into minutes, driving him closer to madness. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes refused to focus on the woman’s face across the table. It blurred, twisted, and shifted like it wasn’t really there. Maybe Medic would be curious about that.

He rubbed his eyes, wiping sweat slicking his brow. Still nothing. 

The heat inside him climbed, his heart punching against his chest so hard he honestly expected it to burst right there and then.

The rest of the house however carried on in blissful ignorance: soft chatter, laughter, the clink of plates. They were having a fine time. They didn’t know. They didn’t know the danger he’d brought upon them all.

Maybe it was time to pray again. It had been so long. His lips moved silently, words threading through his head as his eyes never left Pauling’s hands.

And then she looked back.

The moment their eyes met, Heavy’s brow twitched, crumpling into anger before he could stop himself. All she needed.

Pauling’s smile widened—she rose abruptly, her hand darting toward the bag. Misha’s chair screeched back loudly as he shot to his feet, voice tearing through the room:

“NO!”

.

Heavy’s hands shot to his head as he rubbed at the ache, sitting up with a hissed string of Russian curses. 

The blankets had peeled off the mattress, crumpled on the floor. He had fallen off.
The room was swallowed in darkness. 

He staggered up, searching blindly for the switch.
When the light flicked on, his breath caught.

An ash stain on the carpet. Don’t even think about it, that’s enough for today.

In the dead of night, the door slammed open with a thunderous crack. Heavy stormed down the hall, footsteps echoing, until he reached Engineer’s workshop.

He bent low, grabbed the gate’s handles, and with a single heave wrenched it open.

Inside? A hard-hatted Texan sat hunched over his workbench, eyes red and hollow, tinkering with some half-finished invention long past midnight.

He whipped his head around: the both of them looked more haunted than awake, the lamplight painting deep shadows across their faces.

“Can Engineer fix payphone?” Heavy asked. It came out flat, more like a demand than a question.

Engineer didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His voice was dry, worn out. 

“‘Kay.”

He gathered his tools without another word and pushed past, heading outside the base into the night to wrestle with the broken payphone.

Heavy wanted to feel surprised at the man’s coldness, at how quickly he accepted, but his mind was too fogged, too heavy to process. He drifted away, feet heavily dragging down the dim halls until he found himself at the entrance of Spy’s smoking room.

He stopped, stood there a long moment, then carefully stepped inside.

The room was spotless, almost unnervingly so.

The paintings still hung neatly in their place, not a speck of dust on the frame.

A single lamp had been left burning, casting a warm circle of light across the desk. Heavy didn’t switch it off; it anchored him, gave him direction.

Crossing the room, he hesitated at the edge of Spy’s desk. 

Would the man be furious to see him here, pawing through his private things? The thought gnawed at him before he shoved it to the back of his mind and slid open the drawers.

Fancy cigars….half-drained bottles…contracts… folders that seemed to matter less..pens …

‘All far too expensive for something as trivial as ink’ he thought.

He stacked a handful of folders under his arm, but one slipped free and scattered across the desk. From it slid several photographs: Spy and a lover, caught in candid smiles and rare moments of softness.

Heavy’s throat tightened as he picked one up carefully between his fingers. On the back, written in quick strokes, was a phone number.

He swallowed hard, then slipped the photo into his pocket. He’d remember the number.

Nothing else to see here.

Heavy sighed, though he wasn’t sure what he had been hoping to find in the first place, maybe comfort.

 His eyes wandered the room as though it were the last time he’d be allowed inside, as if after tonight, the door would be shut to him forever.

A few books on the shelf caught his eye, slightly out of place. Spy wouldn’t like that.

He moved quickly to straighten them, lining each one neatly with the next. Then, his large hand landed on a thicker volume that wouldn’t budge. 

He pushed harder, and with a low mechanical click, the shelf shifted.

A sound broke from the desk- a hidden mechanism snapping loose.

Immediately, Heavy spun around just in time to see a drawer slide open on its own. He rushed over, heart pounding, and pulled it wide. Inside were thick folders stamped with a logo he knew all too well: TF Industries.

His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, the weight of the discovery settling in his gut.

As he sifted through the stack, his thick fingers began to crease the edges, crumpling the papers tighter the more he read.

 Most of the documents were redacted beyond use, nothing but black bars and half-sentences. But wedged between them lay something different.

A sketch… Spy’s hand was unmistakable.

A woman smoking a cigarette, her features sharp but elegant, age etched into her face like a story- she looked to be in her forties. 

The lines around her eyes only deepened their pull, a gaze that seemed to burn through the page itself. The drawing cut off just below her bare shoulders, leaving the rest to imagination.

Beneath it, a note in neat, deliberate strokes:

“Bilious Gorge,”

Heavy repeated under his breath, the words foreign on his tongue. He slid the folders carefully back into place, but the name and the woman’s face stayed pressed into his mind.

.

The phone kept ringing, unanswered.

Heavy’s fingers drummed against his thigh. 

Almost an hour and a half had passed, and still no response. 

Maybe he’d forgotten about time zones. It was 3 a.m. for him. He waited anyway.

Maybe Yana would have picked up.

Yana would’ve reassured him that yes, everything was alright, Yes, Mama is fine, No, no “Miss Pauling” or “mysterious and dangerous woman” had shown up at their house, that no harm had come to them while he was powerless to stop it.

He felt small again, like a child running to his mother, breathless, trying to narrate a nightmare.

But still, the phone kept ringing. And still, no one answered. 

And so he left.

Chapter Text

“That's a two-piece, dummy! he hit you there and there, so he's gonna call it a two-piece!”

“That cross-dressing hippie-commie skirt-twirling English-Scot-son-of-a-bitch did not hit me twice, private!” Soldier roared as Engineer tried dragging him away from the chaos.

Four battles against RED since Spy’s. . . “disappearance”. Only one won. And that was by sheer luck. 

At least now, it was time for their not-so-deserved break.

Fights like these had become routine, and Heavy preferred to stay out of them for the time being.

His eyes wandered around the medbay, Medic’s doves fluttering joyfully, the doctor himself chuckling as he adjusted his equipment— he had been laughing for a while now.

“Me? Dressed like that?!” 

He snorted before breaking into another fit of laughter, the sight making the other man chuckle too, though he would’ve preferred not to: it made his insides shift uncomfortably, organs moving around in ways they shouldn’t, or, better yet, in ways he isn't really supposed to see. It didn’t hurt though, thanks to the Medigun.

“Ach, you and your silly dreams,” Medic teased.

Apparently, retelling a nightmare as a “silly dream” had been enough to trick Heavy’s brain and heart into somehow believing it. He felt better now. Lighter.

It also helped him ignore Miss Pauling’s presence in the base.

She had come to deliver orders, contracts and letters once again, and to check on their condition. Unlike before, there was no truck parked outside, and no workers repeatedly rushing in and out with boxes and crates. 

Everything fit neatly into her car’s trunk (even if it looked ready to burst at any moment), saving her the trouble of hiring extra hands.

Heavy didn’t want to see her. Not now. 

So, he let her speak with the others while he stayed beside Medic, content in their quiet corner. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw her face again.

“All done.” 

Medic smiled triumphantly, taking Heavy’s hand to help him sit up; and stealing a quick kiss in the process, catching the larger man off guard.

“Should reduce the pain post-Übercharge,” he continued, adjusting his glasses, by now it had practically become a vice. 

“Those last tweaks were… causing you trouble.” He peeled off his bloody gloves and turned to the sink, washing his hands thoroughly.

Heavy exhaled as he palmed at his chest and shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of his body again. Everything was in place, or at least it seemed like it to him.

With a grunt, he swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself upright.

Not much later, a knock came: faint, almost lost under the sound of running water, and Heavy didn't hear it, too focused on the strange sensations that ran through his body every time Dr. Fritz cut him open.

“Ja— Yes?” Medic called out, still facing the sink. He expected the usual: Soldier or Scout, barging in with another ridiculous injury.

 He sighed at the thought of having to put his gloves back on again.

The doorknob turned.

“Come in!”

When he finally turned around, the sight made him blink twice.

“Oh… Miss Pauling.” His tone shifted immediately, the polite professionalism snapping into place.

“What brings you here?”

Pauling stepped inside, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the tile.

“Hey, Doc! Good news actually,” Pauling announced brightly as she stepped farther into the room, that practiced smile plastered across her face. 

“I was just looking for you.”

She handed Dr.Fritz a thin stack of papers. “New contracts came in recently, and I need you for this. You're the right man for the job. I can trust you, right?”

“Of course.” 

Dr. Fritz nodded automatically, though the corners of his mouth faltered. 

After a beat, he added, “But I have… a question.” 

He set the papers down on the counter, folding his hands.

“I’m aware the holiday break has just begun, but fixing the malfunction in the respawn machine feels… out of Me, Dr. Conagher’s and Degroot's reach at the moment. We are trying, but…” he hesitated, lowering his voice. 

“If, in the worst case, Spy were not to come back… what should we do?”

Pauling blinked once, her expression perfectly neutral. Then, with that same polite tone that always managed to make people feel like they were talking to a wall, she responded-

“You know, Medic, I don’t think I have an answer for you right now.” 

She tilted her head slightly, feigning thought before her lips curled into another soft smile. “But I’ll let you know as soon as possible. Alright?”

As she spoke, her weight shifted just enough to face Heavy.

“Oh, and Heavy?” she said lightly, digging into her bag. 

“You’re not gonna believe this, but your letter got here early!”

Heavy took it carefully, thick fingers brushing against the envelope as if it were something fragile. He inspected the handwriting on the signature before placing it beside him on the counter, nodding once. 

Maybe if he didn’t say anything, she’d go away for good.

Pauling didn’t comment on his silence: best not to piss off the bear in front of her who already looked irritated enough. 

She leaned toward his lover instead, voice barely above a whisper.

“Did I interrupt something?”

Dr. Fritz shook his head as discreetly as he could; Pauling took the hint.

“All right. I’ll see you later, then. Have a good one.” …and she closed the door behind her.

.

Heavy wandered the halls afterward, thinking too fast and sleeping too little.

Normally he’d be having fun playing chess with Medic or trying to solve a crossword with Spy, but the former was elbow-deep in the respawn machine’s guts and the latter was dea—wasn’t available. 

Books no longer quieted his head. They wouldn’t stop him worrying about what he may have dragged into his family’s life.

The idea of someone coming for him he could stomach. For his mother and sisters no. 

The thought made his body go cold and his temper spike. He had to stop it. He had to know who the real danger was so he could keep them away (or end them before they could act.) 

He’d had way too many chances to walk away and he hadn’t taken them, but he couldn't step back now.

Back at Spy’s smoking room, he paused, eyes darting the space as if committing each corner to his memory.

The Russian shut the door with practiced care, the smell of smoke and Spy’s cologne rolling over him like a ghost.

He moved the thick book again- the hidden mechanism clicked, the secret drawer slid open, and he got back to work: this time with the kind of attention he’d refused to give before.

He studied the contents slowly, memorizing every single detail and information before his eyes as carefully as possible (at least the ones that did not go uncensored by the thick ink.)

Phone number. Australium. Bilious Gorge. TF Industries. Mann Co.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

Some things he recognized instantly; the Mann Co. logo, for instance, burned into memory from the heavy plating of his minigun. 

Others, though, were new words and names that tangled like wires in his head, practically impossible to connect.

The more he read, the deeper he sank into confusion. Spy’s notes sprawled across the pages: lines, arrows, half-sentences leading from one mystery to another.

Heavy imagined him hunched over the desk, chain-smoking like he always did, scribbling through the night.

Redmond. Blutarch. Greymann-

He lowered the papers. 

A different kind of feeling crept in now. No longer confusion- awareness. He held his breath.

Spy's smoking room was quiet, but he was sure he had heard something, he hadn't imagined it.

Just to be sure he turned around, hands instinctively grabbing the nearest object and gripping it tight. His arms swung up, ready to— Ah.

The rubber soles tapped against the carpet, quick and uneven. They tilted their head and jabbed a finger against their mask, muffled voice calling him “crazy.”

Heavy’s shoulders dropped. He lowered his arms.

Pyro flailed their hands in the air, mumbling angrily about something Heavy couldn't really understand…The sound of the mask’s filter made it all the more absurd.

Another sound came: a swift knock on the door.

“Heavy? Are you in here?” Dr. Fritz’s voice was muffled through the wood.

Before Heavy could even think to answer, Pyro began shaking their head violently, arms forming an ‘X’ in front of their chest, begging him not to say a word.

Heavy froze, his tongue caught behind his teeth. Answer Medic or listen to Pyro?

Before he could decide, the voice came again, this time sharper.

“Alright, be that way, Misha.” Footsteps faded down the hall.

The coldness in Medic’s tone stung. So unlike him... he thought.

It caught Heavy off guard more than he wanted to admit: it hurt.

Pyro exhaled through the filter of their mask, the sound hissing like steam, before stepping around the desk and snatching up the papers Heavy had set down.

Heavy’s chest tightened. Hold on a second, Could he even trust Pyro?

The worry crawled its way back into his head, heavier than before, and memories of his "dream" came back to him. 

He once again drifted off without realizing, mind blurring out the edges of reality until a sharp smack on his arm jolted him back.

Pyro stood beside him, holding up a small drawing board scrawled with notes and numbers.

The larger man blinked the fog from his eyes and focused: 

The board was covered in hours, like shift schedules, meticulously written down. Beneath them, an address, another phone number and a map. 

He took it from Pyro’s hands, inspecting each mark. 

At the top left; notes about when someone was usually in or out of the base- When they were busy, when they weren’t. Times when the workshop lights stayed on long into the night, and when the sound of machines went quiet, each detail written down with unnerving precision. The address instead was the same format he had found on the documents, but this time, not censored by the ink: Heavy sighed with relief.

“How does little Pyro know all this?” He spoke up, looking up from the drawing board.

Pyro scratched at the back of their neck, glancing around the room without giving any kind of answer.

He would’ve really liked to know how they managed to get all of this information, how they even knew what to look for, but he didn’t push it: He was already grateful enough that they’d shared it with him at all, as if Pyro somehow understood how much the whole situation gnawed at him deep down, even though he’d never spoken a word of it to anyone.

Without thinking, his arms wrapped around them. He pulled Pyro close, one massive hand rubbing the top of their head in quiet thanks before letting go.

He was almost surprised there was a head left to hold at all.

Sleep paralysis was something Heavy rarely struggled with, but when it came he hated every single second of it:

The way time froze around him, trapping him in that still moment, the way every sound, every flicker, every breath became too sharp to bear.

He remembered getting up, feet dragging toward the kitchen for a glass of water to clear his head.

Pyro was there, gently tucking a blanket over a sleeping Demoman before turning toward him.

The larger man sat at the table, across from the gate that hid Engineer’s workshop; Just like on the drawing board. The hours were right. The lights were off.

Heavy yawned, rubbing his face. “Pyro is not gonna sleep?”

The firebug only walked up and held his arm, silent as always.

He didn’t remember much after that, just Pyro walking him back to his room, the same way they did for the others when they’d had too much to drink.

They sat in the corner afterward, right where the paralysis demon had just been, flicking a lighter on and off in the dark, as if trying to keep the nightmare away.

Birds sang outside as sunrays invaded his room, forcing him out of a comfortable slumber. Heavy winced, groaning as he sat up, annoyed at the light and longing for just a few more minutes of sleep.

It was a sunny day, and he surprisingly didn’t have anything planned for it. Well…he did.

He was supposed to help Medic test the respawn mechanics again, or, in other words, to let the man end his life and watch as the machine brought him back as if nothing had ever happened, as if he were some mannequin. 

But he was scared. Scared to never open his eyes again, to lose the gift of “immortality” like Spy had.

…Or maybe just that Medic was still angry with him for yesterday’s silence.

He walked to the bathroom, a few mercenaries already there. Soldier stood at the mirror, razor in hand, gliding the blade along his stubbled jaw with practiced precision. Scout instead inspected his chin attentively; something he did every morning for at least forty minutes, hoping that a single stubborn hair might finally decide to show up. 

Then, for another thirty, he’d flex in front of the mirror, practicing his grin, posture and “style”, all in hopes of catching the attention of a single mom, a hot babe, or an overworked, underpaid assistant.

“Morning, big boy!” Dell gave Heavy a friendly elbow as he stepped inside, whistling low. He reached for his shaving cream and blade, humming as he worked.

“You oughta shave a bit too, got some hair growing on ya. Don’t wanna end up lookin’ like a real bear now.”

“Aye, yer already so damn energetic, and it’s barely dawn,” Demo muttered from the corner, voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing good rest can’t fix,” Engineer shot back with a grin, tapping the blade against the sink to shake off the foam.

“Right, before I forget.” Engineer said suddenly, leaning back and glancing at Heavy. “Not sure if Doc already told ya, but we’re gonna need you for testing. Gotta make sure that respawn machine really does work for everybody else, then, if all goes well…”

He hesitated, his voice slowing as if the next words were heavier than he expected.

“…then maybe we can bring Spy back.”

Heavy’s brow twitched, razor paused midair.

“How do you know is not dangerous for Heavy? That I will come back?” he asked; half question, half demand. He didn’t even look at Engineer as he spoke, just kept dragging the blade carefully along his jawline, the scrape echoing against the tile walls.

The bluntness in his tone made the whole room go still, even Scout stopped flexing in the mirror.

Engineer exhaled and shrugged lightly, though his face tightened.

“Well… it worked on Demo, that’s for sure. Soldier and Doc too. Both of ‘em got themselves electrocuted ,came back just fine.”

“We don’t know why, but it hit Spy only. You could help us.” Demoman added, tossing a white towel over his shoulder and readjusting the one around his hips.

“Oi!” he barked as something smacked him hard on the back: Scout, grinning wide, twirling his own towel like a weapon.

“Oh, why ye little-” Demo shouted before the two burst into a full-blown towel fight, practically naked. Soldier, of course, dove right into the chaos without hesitation.

Heavy simply watched the scene unfold, a small corner of his mind almost admiring their innocence, how easily they could laugh despite everything. Dell instead just stood there dumbfounded.

“I understand your concerns,” he finally said, turning to Heavy. “Think on it and let me know, alright?” He gave the man one last friendly pat on the arm before heading out the same door he’d come through.

Heavy stayed behind, staring at his reflection, thinking over those words. He knew it wasn’t really a request. 

Engineer was just sugarcoating a demand. He had to show up for the testing.

.

“Come on, come on…” he whispered softly, rubbing his back in a desperate attempt to ease the pain.

Heavy gagged again, body convulsing as he vomited more, his hands clutching at his chest and stomach like he could find the source of his sickness that way. His vision spun violently, the room tilting and blurring as if the world itself was unsteady.

“Why didn’t you tell me to stop?!” Medic’s voice cracked- part anger, part panic as he kept caressing the man’s back, torn between scolding and comforting him.

Dr. Fritz had offered the Medigun more than once, but Heavy had refused every time. Medic didn’t press; he knew Heavy could stomach sickness, but this many respawns in such a short time could cause consequences unknown to everyone.

The doctor’s outburst made Heavy pause, something clicking behind his eyes.

“I wanted to.”

He panted, forcing himself to raise his head a little. “Heavy remembers now, remembers wanting to tell Doktor. 

But every time I respawned… it’s like I forget everything.”

He spoke slowly and carefully, each word feeling like it had to be pulled out of him, trying to make sense of the strange fog in his head.

“Ach, that side effect was mentioned somewhere…” Medic muttered, rubbing his temples. “I can’t recall it now. . . Doesn’t matter; You need rest, immediately.”

“Doktor—”

“Now, Misha.”

Heavy groaned, frustrated, but didn’t argue.

The clock ticked closer to 8PM; the base was settling into its nightly rhythm. 

During the holiday breaks, some mercenaries would pack up for a week or more to visit family, something Heavy could never do. The distance was too great.

They had planned a poker game for the night, drinks included, a brief escape before the goodbyes and the eternal silence inside the base.

Only Pyro, Sniper and occasionally Medic stayed around, but they weren't as talkative as the others: They couldn’t keep him distracted like the latter did.

The russian ignored the “trustworthy” doctor’s advice and went straight for the table, greeted by cheers the moment he sat down. 

Medic pouted from the sidelines, muttering warnings about rest and recovery, but Heavy didn’t listen. All of the alcohol in front of him practically called his name, the chorus of his teammates egging him on.

Cards. Jokes. Shouting. Cussing.

Dirty humor and drunken laughter filled the air, overlapping until it became one warm, chaotic sound.

At first, it was fun, like it used to be, like it's supposed to be.

But the more he drank, the harder it became to laugh.

The room tilted, or maybe his head did, and everyone’s voices started to melt together into one indistinguishable noise. Even the cards on the table began to blur, the red and black bleeding into a muddy gray that made his stomach twist.

Someone slammed a glass down, someone else burst out laughing, and he couldn’t tell who anymore.

He blinked and swore he saw a flicker of smoke curling in the corner of his eye, a shadow leaning back with a cigarette, just out of reach.

Heavy’s hand trembled as he reached for another drink, his reflection bending in the dark whiskey. For a split second, he thought he saw another face in the glass; that cold smirk, the faint trail of blue smoke, eyes half-lidded and tired but still sharp enough to cut.

And then it was gone, leaving only his own distorted shape staring back.

What was it that Medic said? That the respawn scrambles the mind sometimes? That memories get tangled? Yeah, Maybe this was that. 

Or maybe he just missed him so much his brain was trying to fill in the silence.

He took another drink anyway.

Everything was spinning; laughter, light, noise, and guilt, swirling together until he couldn’t tell if the warmth in his chest came from the alcohol or from the ache he’d been running from ever since he disappeared.

He could've sworn he heard Spy’s voice echo somewhere in the haze, almost tender, calling his name.

Heavy laughed under his breath, but it came out broken.

Even if drunk, he surprisingly kept the pace going, pile of chips rising rapidly, and so did the complaints of his teammates.

“No way! You’re cheating!”

“Well don’t that beat all…”

“Ach, I was so close to getting that damn straight!”

He laughed it off, trying his best to appear less drunk than he already was. 

His words slurred together, but the grin stayed fixed on his face, the warmth of the whiskey coating his throat.

The good mood settled in again, his worries pushed to the side and, once more, Spy was forced to the back of his mind, just like the shot of whiskey he pushed to the back of his throat.

. . .

. . .

He cursed under his breath as he fumbled through the drawer, papers slipping through his fingers and fluttering to the ground. 

Receipts, letters, useless forms. . all a drunken blur until his hands finally brushed the familiar paper. The letters.

He exhaled in relief and began sorting them clumsily,movements uneven but gentle.

He placed the ones from his family aside, setting them down with almost ritualistic care before digging again, slower this time, until he found it; one of the many documents he’d taken from Spy’s smoking room.

It was a bad idea. A terrible one, even. 

But the thought had been gnawing at him for days. 

Maybe it wouldn’t work, maybe nothing would come of it, but at least he could try to do something right for once. 

The fear inside him had teeth now, tearing him apart from within. If something somehow did happen to him, if the worst came true, then maybe he could at least make sure the other man wasn’t erased. Not forgotten.

He’d trusted him enough to talk about himself, about his family and his past, but the other man had never done the same.

Never opened up, never trusted back.

And now, that silence felt unbearable.

Quietly, he rose from his chair, swaying a little. He slipped his feet into his slippers, careful not to make a sound as he opened the door and stepped into the chill of the night. 

He trudged toward the payphone, breath fogged in the air as he whispered small, shaky prayers to himself: 

That the line would work, that someone would pick up, that this time it wouldn’t just be silence.

He pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket, double-checked the digits, and slowly pressed them into the keypad. The tone rang out, hollow and endless, as he lifted the receiver to his ear and waited.

. . . 

Click!

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice; tired, groggy, but soft, came through the line.

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Etienne, is this you?”

“Do you really have to call me this late at night? Are your co-workers that strict?”

He lowered the receiver, setting it back in place.

He fumbled for his pen and scribbled the name onto the crumpled paper, his handwriting uneven, letters pressing deep into the surface.

Etienne.

He tucked it away and began the slow walk back toward the base, eyes heavy (but heart heavier), and the cold wind nipping at his face as if to make sure he was still awake.

Finally, the masked man had a name.

Chapter Text

His fingers pressed against the keys, coordinated, as if they had their own brain.

Years and years and years of practice had turned him into some kind of walking instrument, his piano knowledge something he had carried with him since childhood.

He learned to love it only when the melodies began sounding like actual songs, and not like the constant yelling and scolding of his parents. His mind was on and only on the piano, everything else faded away. . . 

. . . . It’s all Heavy noticed about him, from his face to the smallest twitches of his fingers.

It’s all that mattered. He had learned to love the piano despite his past with it.

It was behind him. It was the past.

So why couldn’t he do the same? Why couldn’t he move on?

He scribbled on the paper, mind static, before snapping out of it and forcing his hand to form actual words again, slow, deliberate and precise. Medic approached from behind, silent like a Spy, trying to get a good look at the letter’s content, frowning at the sight of Russian written in neat, elegant handwriting.

He placed a hand on Heavy’s shoulder, and he could’ve sworn he felt the man tense, something he never did. He really wished he hadn’t noticed.

“Misha…” he spoke softly.

Demo’s piano slowed for a moment; fewer notes, less aggression—before spiking again, as if he were releasing his bottled-up anger through the keys, drowning out the private conversation between the two men.

“Don’t tell me you forgot our tea party!” Medic joked, but both of them knew it meant something else: his hand brushed against Heavy’s back, a gentle urge to stand and follow.

"Alright.” Heavy took the letters with him, unwilling to leave them out in the open, even in a different language.

I mean, God knows what else Demo did on the side: maybe he was learning every language in the world, too.

Silence filled the room, the only sound being the soft pour of tea.

Two cups were filled to the brim, and Heavy took his carefully, blowing on it before attempting a sip… too hot.  He decided on watching the liquid spin instead, idly turning the cup in his big hands.

From behind, Medic’s bare hands found his shoulders, kneading them gently before finally speaking.

“You and I both know I’m not the ideal man for these kinds of talks.” he began, voice low, “but, that won’t stop me from checking on you. Ever. Because I care about you.”

“It’s been… years, Misha. I never thought you’d freeze up again and…” he trailed off, searching for words.

“Misha, you’ve been- . . .” he gave a small groan. “. . .acting off lately, that’s all. Just like the first day I met you. 

You didn’t know a lick of English, wouldn’t let anyone near you…” Fritz chuckled softly at the memory.

Heavy listened closely, chest tightening with guilt for making someone worry about him: he never wanted that.

“I miss my family, is all.” he said, cutting straight to the point. “Don’t like seeing team leave for holidays.”

“I understand.” Medic replied, tone gentle. 

“It’s the distance, isn’t it? You can’t see them.”

“Not just distance. Safety. They are safer in mountains, away from evil.” the giant murmured.

“Distance is not always problem,” he continued. “Demoman’s mother and him moved here, but she was distant. My family is hiding, alone, and I am here in America. I do not get as many updates as other men do.”

Medic’s fingers pressed softly against his shoulders. “I knew something was bothering you, i noticed you weren’t as talkative as usual during surgery. It all started around when the respawn machine malfunctioned; it must’ve shaken you. You’ve just seemed so sad lately…” his hands slipped under Heavy’s collar, fingers tracing bare skin before planting a slow kiss on his neck.

Oh.

The russian froze, tension returning to his muscles. 

“Thank you for talk, Doktor.” Heavy said, his voice low but sincere. He stood up gradually, giving Medic a chance to move back, eyes lingering: a silent apology and a wordless gratitude all at once.

"Anytime.” Medic replied warmly, watching him go as he collected the cups from the table, the faint scent of tea hanging in the quiet room.

It actually wasn’t that long before they were together again, this time with the rest of the team, gathered at the center of the base packing luggage and sorting gear. 

Heavy worked calmly, taking his time filling and zipping up a small red bag. Medic instead, across the room, was setting the cutlery out with quiet focus.

“You goin’ somewhere?” The voice behind him startled him a bit; he turned to find Sniper standing there.

“No. Helping Scout pack.” Heavy responded flatly.

Sniper gave a small nod. “That’s kind of you-Oh, and don’t worry ‘bout dinner tonight, me an’ Truckie got it handled.” 

he gave Heavy’s arm a brief, almost hesitant pat before walking off.

Heavy blinked. The gesture surprised him, it seemed the whole base had quietly picked up on his mood. He’d never been one to talk much; always kept to himself, quiet and observant…maybe he didn’t go as unnoticed as he thought. When everyone finally sat down, the usual noise filled the air: laughter echoed through the mess hall, mixing with the scrape of forks and the clinking of bottles. Louder tonight, full of jokes, chatter, and half-drunken stories. 

Heavy’s eyes drifted toward Demoman.

The man sat slouched, poking his mashed potatoes like they’d done him wrong, trying his best to eat something, anything since the team had started teasing him about how much weight he’d lost. His hand swayed the bottle of Scrumpy lazily back and forth, taking small sips between sighs.

The russian hesitated before finally speaking up.

“Is Demoman unhappy?”

The room went quiet for half a second, heads turning his way.

“Eh??? Nooo, I’m fine, big man!” Demo blurted, gesturing with his Scrumpy and grinning crookedly. “Just missin’ ol’ Spy’s liquor, tha’s all! His was the good stuff, aye? Saved the best bottles for the fanciest nights!”

The others laughed, nodding and chiming in, quickly turning the topic to their favorite drinks, their drunkest memories, anything but the name hanging in the air.

Spy.

Were they really not going to talk about him tonight? Not at all?

Heavy felt the sadness creep back in, slow and familiar, the warmth draining from the room as laughter took over again. Demoman, instead, brightened up with the noise, his laugh coming easier now that the conversation was about alcohol.

Engineer, one of the few sober ones, stood up, wiping his hands on a napkin before picking up his plate. 

“Gonna go finish loadin’ up my truck. Got a long haul ahead’a me.” He gave a small tilt of his helmet, a quiet kind of goodbye.

“Y’all save me a drink if there’s any left by the time I’m back, ya hear?”

The mercenaries called out farewells, chuckling as he headed out the door. Heavy stayed still for a moment, food already cold before standing up as well, met with a good amount of protests.

He simply waved them off with a warm smile, their half-drunken complaints tugging at the corners of his mouth. It made him feel better; knowing they liked having him around. They cared.

He walked down the dimly lit hall toward the dormitories, his heavy footsteps soft against the floor. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a small stack of folded letters, dropping them to the ground and nudging them forward with his foot, watching as they slid neatly under Pyro’s door. Then he kept walking as if nothing had happened.

When the hallway lights began to flicker off one by one, Heavy sighed with quiet relief: Everyone was turning in for the night.

They had early flights to catch, long roads to drive, …homes to return to.

From the end of the hall, he caught sight of Demoman wrapping Scout and Sniper into a clumsy, drunken hug, the shorter man yelping, the taller mumbling something soft that Heavy couldn’t quite catch. Both Scout and Demo were leaving to visit their mothers, and he  wished he could’ve done the same.

He slipped his feet into his worn slippers, careful not to make a sound as he swung the small red backpack over one shoulder. The hallway camera above the exit had already been slightly tilted away by him, just enough to keep his departure unseen. He opened the door with practiced quiet, stepping out into the cold.

The air bit at his skin once more, and, just like last time, he didn’t mind. His thoughts wandered as he made his way down the path, the jingle of the van keys in his bag the only thing anchoring him to the present.

Suddenly, a tune. Faint strings plucked in rhythm.

Heavy froze, his überheart nearly jumping out of his chest.

There, by the bonfire, sat Engineer; legs crossed, banjo resting against his thigh as he hummed and picked at the strings, the warm crackle of fire wrapping him in orange light. 

His voice rose gently over the night air, melody soft and homesick.

Heavy’s breath came fast, then slowed again. He pressed his lips together, his frustration cutting through the shock. Could he trust him the way he had trusted Pyro? Should he know that he was leaving the base this late?

“Engineer is loyal, a friend I can rely on.” Medic’s words echoed in his mind. 

. . .

Best not to take the risk.

Without a word, he turned back toward the base, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. The memory of Pyro’s timetable flashed in his head- he needed to consult it.

. . .

. . .

The road stretched on forever.

Just him, the van, and the low hum of tires rolling over cracked asphalt. 

Honestly, it didn’t even seem like a proper road anymore, but rather a strip of old tar that forgot where it was supposed to lead. The lights from the last town had vanished a long time ago and, with every mile, the world got quieter…only a moron would live out here.  

He kept glancing at the map on the passenger seat, folded and creased from how many times he’d checked it. 

The red circle around Bilious Gorge looked stupid now, like a child’s guess. That’s what it was really, guesswork. He had no idea what he was looking for.  Didn’t even know if anyone would be there when he arrived. All he had was an address and a feeling, something that wouldn’t let him sleep until he did this.

Heavy rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, exhaling hard.

Maybe he should’ve planned it out better, looked into what the place actually was, instead of just running off like an idiot. But no, he just had to move, he always did. Sitting still made the thoughts too loud.

He realized, after a while, that the road had stopped having exits, or even signs of life. Just open land and dead quiet. The kind of place that felt like it swallowed people.

He slowed down, letting the van’s speed roll to a crawl as he looked around for somewhere to leave it. It’d be hell to find his way back if he parked in the wrong spot: everything here looked the same, just dirt and the faint outline of canyons in the distance. Something caught his eye-

BILIOUS GORGE, painted in fading blue and white, hanging crooked on a wired gate.

A few smaller metal plates dangled all around it, clinking softly when the wind blew: NO TRESPASSING, PROPERTY OF TF. INDUSTRIES…... all the usual warnings people put up when they actually meant it.

He pulled the van over, engine idling for a moment before he turned the key and let the silence rush back in- The air smelled like dust and old metal.

He stood in front of the wired gate for a while; the place didn’t look welcoming, not that he’d expected it to. He took a breath anyway, long and steady, hands curling around the bars before he even thought about what he was doing.

The metal bit at his palms.

One hard pull, then another, and the hinges gave with a long, ugly screech. It echoed, loud enough to make him wince, but it didn’t stop him. He ripped the gate’s door off, pausing once he was on the other side. He didn’t bother looking behind him, taking a deep breath as he walked further inside. Down the path, he slowed down; the dirt narrowed into a half-buried road, and then he saw them- moving shapes, low to the ground, growling.

A pack of dogs stood guard around an old, rusty gate, the kind that didn’t lead anywhere worth guarding anymore. Their eyes caught the Russian and flashed like shards of glass.
Next to them, another cluster of rusted signs clung to the fence, swinging faintly in the breeze: “MANN CO. MINES.” It stirred something in him. Curiosity, mostly, though there was a strange familiarity to it too, as if the name had been waiting for him all along.

Heavy stayed where he was, watching the dogs shift and snarl, muscles taut, hackles up. They weren’t wild, exactly, after all he had seen (and fought) worse- but they weren’t tame either. Something in between: abandoned protectors that had forgotten what they were protecting. He reached back for the red backpack hanging loose on his shoulder, slipping it off with care. The zipper came open with a small metallic rasp, and his hand found what he was looking for.

The moment the Sandvich appeared, their tone changed: the barking stopped, their ears perked up, and their tails started to move. They still growled a little, but the edge was gone. Hunger did that, Heavy knew. It made enemies polite.

He took a slow step forward, then another. The cold bit at his fingers as he extended the Sandvich toward them.

“Here.” he muttered softly.

He tossed it down between the pack, and the reaction was immediate: a flurry of motion, paws scraping the dirt, small whines and snorts as they tore the food apart with desperate joy. He stood still and watched.

Their ribs showed under the fur, teeth sharp but bodies thin, too thin. Starved things trying to survive.
Something twisted deep inside him, the sight tugging at an old, buried place.

The real cold, the noise of boots on frozen ground. The way hunger felt- not as pain, but as emptiness that turned your bones hollow. He blinked the memories of the camp away, forcing himself to focus. The dogs, at least, were fed now.

When the last crumbs were gone, they circled around him, tails wagging, eyes bright again. One nudged his knee with its nose, another pressed close to his leg, asking wordlessly for more.
He leaned down, scratching behind their ears, muttering to them in a low, fond tone that probably meant nothing but sounded kind enough. “Good boys,” he said, voice catching just slightly.

They followed as he straightened and began walking again, padding along at his heels former-guards-turned companions. The path they’d once defended now lay open before him. Heavy walked quietly, the sound of their paws against the ground being the only company he had left.

The dogs bit down on human flesh, snarling and tearing as the echoes filled the narrow mine tunnel. Heavy instead was being lifted upward, the old platform groaning beneath his boots as it rose, leaving the carnage behind.

When the metal finally stopped shuddering, the silence hit him first. 

The tunnel was gone: in its place, a dimly lit corridor. He wiped a streak of blood from his arm, the warmth of it reminding him that it wasn’t his. Heavy carefully listened to his surroundings, the faint, distant beeping of the machinery surrounding him from all sides. Methodical, almost like the hum of a sentry waiting to wake. He couldn’t tell where it came from; the sound echoed through the place, bouncing off the walls and playing tricks on his ears.

They twisted in their chair, heart hammering, telling themselves it was just their imagination. For a long moment, the monitors showed only empty hallways. Then, like they had imagined, movement. Large silhouette, trudging through dust and flickering lights, slow and deliberate. Their brow furrowed.

They zoomed the feed in…definitely not supposed to be there. They swore under their breath, instinctively reaching for the shotgun resting beside the chair. The motion was clumsy, desperate.

Shoes struck the metal floor with a hollow clang as they sprang to their feet, storming out of the room. If someone was invading the facility, there was only one way to handle it; meet them head-on.

They knew the layout better than anyone; if the intruder took the far exit, just as they assumed, they could circle around and catch the intruder from behind. They didn’t waste any time; rounding the corner without a second thought for the bloodied dogs or the torn corpses of the guards. The soles of their shoes echoed nervously against the metal as the lift crawled upward painfully slow, each second stretching endlessly. The moment it reached its destination, they burst into the corridors, moving fast and precise, determined to find him.

Heavy stopped in his tracks.

The cock of a shotgun behind him made him freeze, a sound he was far too familiar with: “friendly” warnings like this were nothing new to the Russian, he had received far too many to count back home. He turned slowly, not afraid to face the figure behind him, years of experience coursing through his veins. 

Yet, no amount of skill had prepared him for the shock and inner turmoil of being held at gunpoint by the same person he had shared dinner with the night before, joking and trading life stories. 

His stomach twisted, a sudden queasy flip, as if the sight of the Texan aiming that shotgun at him—at him!!—was enough to make him lose control. 

He clenched his jaw, forcing his expression into something serious, composed- but inside, pure disbelief. Every heartbeat hammered against his ribs, every memory of trust and camaraderie pressing him into the ground.

“Engineer is loyal, a friend I can rely on.”  he thought about Medic’s words a second time.

“What is this about?” Heavy spoke first, his voice low and sharp. “Australium? Pulling shotgun on your own teammate, You are a coward.” His expression stayed stone, but his words dripped with judgement, with hate.

“Who sent ya here, exactly? How’d ya find this place?” Engineer fired back, drawl thick, finger tightening on the trigger. Heavy said nothing.

He paused, weighing each word before speaking again. “Dell-” “That’d be Mister Conagher to ya. Now, who sent ya here?” 

Heavy’s brows drew together, the distance between them small, dangerous. One wrong move, and the shotgun would claim him. He knew Engineer well; he didn’t play games. His mind flicked elsewhere- Mama. A letter sent to her and his sisters, a “malfunction in the respawn machine” to cover up the truth…the same one Engineer himself was workin’ to fix. 

He would make it out alive. He would make it out alive. He’d leave, for good.

“You better answer, before I—” Heavy seized the split second of distraction, his fist swinging hard. He would make it out alive, and he’d go back home.

Engineer’s blood spattered across the floor, body dropping immediately, shotgun clattering beside him. Heavy didn’t hesitate; lunging forward, momentum carrying him over the man, fists raised to crush.

But the Texan was faster- reflexes honed, eyes sharp, hands gripping the weapon with deadly precision. The cold steel pressed against Heavy’s throat for the briefest instant before the deafening crack of the gunfire tore through the tension.  

. . .

Engineer’s scream tore through the air, raw and guttural, the kind that clawed its way up from deep inside the chest.

He rolled to his side, clutching his face, swearing through broken teeth, spitting blood and fury between every breath as the adrenaline that rushed through his body was now replaced with pure pain: his cheekbone was completely fractured, skin already swelling purple; his face twisted and deformed. One eye was bloodshot and bulging from its socket, red and glistening, as if it could completely fall out at any second. The shotgun lay forgotten beside him, his voice filling the space instead; loud, desperate, animal.

Mikhail stared in confusion, frozen in place, chest heaving slow and shallow. The scene felt wrong, distant. The world tilted sideways around him; the sound of the Engineer’s pain came muffled, like through glass. For a moment he wondered why the man had stopped attacking, why the fight had simply… ended. His hand found his own neck by instinct, came away slick, red. The motion sent the ground tilting again beneath him.

Mikhail took a step back, then another, the room stretching and spinning. Engineer was still howling something—words or curses, he couldn’t even tell anymore. Everything came in flashes- The floor. The door. The cold air outside. The nausea.  He didn’t remember getting there. One blink, and the facility was gone behind him. Another blink, and his boots were crunching against gravel. His breathing grew shallow, too slow, his vision flickering at the edges.

He reached the van, opening the door and stumbling inside, dropping onto the seat beside the driver’s side, staring ahead as the dizziness swallowed him whole.

He was too out of it to notice the van had already started; they were on the road again, going God-knows where. 

Mikhail kept panting; the blood across his throat, especially his clothes, had already cooled a bit, slowly drying into a dark crust. The windows were down, the sharp wind on his skin easing his pain and keeping him grounded in the blur of it all.

He turned his head toward the driver, wanting to say thank you, or where are we going, or maybe just I’m still here.

Etienne’s hands moved the steering wheel with slow, effortless care. The smile that unfolded across his face, as he looked at Mikhail, was wrong in a way that made the skin crawl.

It began small, almost polite, then spread with a sickeningly deliberate slowness, the corners of his mouth stretching too far, the line between lip and cheek tightening as if someone had pulled at the skin. His teeth showed a shade too many;  grin sitting on his face like a practiced mask.

Mikhail stared back, his throat still slightly wet and tacky, breath trembling. The engine hummed softly beneath them. 

He left, for good.