Chapter Text
“Things are going to be different now.”
The way Pauling said it, tentative, and not particularly hopeful, was not really a good sign. In his years working as the Spy for BLU, René had noticed that Miss Pauling tended to deliver bad news sandwiches to them. Meaning generally when she had something bad to tell them about their working conditions, she tended to slide it between two pieces of slightly more positive information. Not this time unfortunately. The young woman shifted uncomfortably as she addressed the gathered Blus in their New Mexico base, and René did feel a little bad for her. It was not her fault, and yet some of the team would likely rage at her regardless.
They were moving base, heading north, quite far north, and would be there for a while. Not ideal, not desired, and yet they had no choice in the matter regardless. And that wasn’t all. There were to be further… changes. But of course, they were not being told the rest of the news yet, for reasons unknown. René could think of a few, the most likely, and most pessimistic of these being that whatever further changes coming were somehow worse than being moved to a frigid, isolated part of the country with no word on when that might change. He didn’t mention this to his colleagues as they packed up to leave the warmth of New Mexico though, as he did not need to spend the entirety of an undoubtedly arduous and long train journey being incessantly whined at by Scout, or shouted at by Soldier. As the team had loaded onto the train, Heavy had turned to Spy, and said, sagely, “This will not be good.” René was inclined to agree.
Things only went from bad to worse several days later when they reached their destination. Climbing out of the train, the Blu team were treated to the sight of another train in the desolate station, also having just pulled up. René stood frozen, as he watched the entirety of the Red team unloading from it. Both teams seemed taken by surprise, members looking to their colleagues for guidance. René rather thought the uncertain stand off in the snow could have gone on forever, were it not for the polite clearing of a throat from further up the train platform. Eighteen pairs of eyes turned towards the sound. There stood Miss Pauling, dressed for the weather in a purple parka, and beside her, Mr. Bidwell, holding a clipboard. It was Saxton’s Hale’s assistant that had cleared his throat, garnering the attention of the gathered mercenaries. They all looked at the two newcomers, aside from the two spies, who gave each other a long suffering, and very tired look of shared exasperation.
Despite Bidwell being the one to catch their attention, it was Pauling that spoke, raising a hand and calling, “Afternoon, gentlemen! I’m sure you’re all uh… curious as to what’s going on. Leave your luggage, it’ll be brought up for you. Please come with us, and I’ll explain your new assignment.” Wonderful. Assignment. Singular. With more than a little trepidation, the mercs began to follow the two, leaving the relative warmth and comfort of the trains, for whatever lay ahead.
As they walked, both the scouts naturally hurried ahead, shoving each other back in their eager haste to bother Miss Pauling for information and attention. René heard himself hiss “Jeremy!” In a weary voice, and to little effect. Hearing a huff of a laugh off to his side, he looked to see his Red counterpart shaking his head ruefully. The Blu spy frowned at the man who looked rather like himself, and the man said, in French, “There is little point, non?” René studied him for a few moments, expression searching, before giving a huff of agreement, and shaking his head. He was right, of course. One would have better luck herding cats into a bag than trying to control a scout.
The road away from the empty train station was slick with packed snow, and the mercs grumbled up it in discontent, as none of them were dressed for the weather. The two snipers in particular looked miserable, lanky, hot weather men that they were. René felt a certain amount of dread coming over him. Whatever was planned here, he had a distinct worry about dynamics becoming upset. The two teams had not been this close to each other in their entirety throughout his entire contract with Blu.
Indeed, the rest of the mercs were looking at their counterparts warily, the odd situation clearly not escaping them. Except of course, for the Blu Soldier and Red Demo, who were having what they presumably considered a subtle snow fight, despite errant freezing missiles having already found incidental targets in the softly cussing Red Engineer, and René’s own bristling Medic. René sighed. This was going to be a long… unspecified amount of time.
The teams were led up a winding road lined with weathered looked coniferous trees. They were clearly quite far from any civilisation, as evidenced by the long faded and somewhat damaged road signs. There were no tyre tracks of any kind in the ankle deep snow. Wherever they were, it seemed likely they were the only people there. René watched as the Red Scout tripped in his haste, being hauled back to his shivering feet by a generous Miss Pauling.
Eventually, the road opened out into the thoroughfare of a town, one that looked long abandoned, and devoid of any human life. There was only one street, lined with long closed businesses and ramshackle houses. At the other end of this street, René could see the hulking shape of what appeared to be a particularly large building, perhaps an old factory of some kind. Many of the mercs dithered as they stepped foot into the town, and he understood why. The layout of the place was not so dissimilar to many other places they had found themselves fighting, except this time the two teams were walking into it together. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.” This came from the Red Sniper, leaning in to mutter to his Soldier colleague. The bushman clearly caught René looking at him, as he gave a wary glare from behind his tinted glasses. Mon dieu. If looks could kill.
“Alright. Well. It could be…worse,” Bidwell was saying, though he looked doubtful of his own words as he surveyed the buildings around them. “Most of the windows have glass, at least.” He glanced at Miss Pauling, who clapped her hands together, and said, commandingly, “Up to the factory, everyone, that’ll be your base of operations. Everything should be ready for you up there.”
Everything was not ready for them up there.
When the two teams filed into the drafty entry way of the long abandoned factory, it was to the sight of Mann Co employees depositing their meager luggage before them, and nothing else. Miss Pauling looked around with her hands on her hips, and then said, “Where's all the furniture? And supplies?” Bidwell said, “Eeehhrr,” and then, “Hang on, let me make a call,” he retrieved a phone the size of a brick from the satchel he was carrying and stalked away down an adjacent corridor, punching a number in speeddial.
“Ok,” Pauling said, trying to sound upbeat, “While Bidwell… deals with that, how about everyone huddles up and I’ll brief you. Come on folks, listen up. You don’t have to stand that close, Scout. Neither do you… Scout.”
The eighteen mercenaries shuffled and elbowed, organising themselves. René was amused to see that both teams seemed to arrange themselves the same way for such a briefing. Heavy, Sniper, and Medic standing at the back, calm and quiet. Demo and Soldier nudging each other in the middle, with Spy standing off to one side. Engie standing at the front, stance wide and arms folded, with Pyro sat crisscross applesauce on the floor in front of him. And finally Scout, crouched like he was waiting for the starting gun of a race.
Pauling looked from one group to the other, and back again. “Wow, gosh. I… really have never seen you all in one room like this. It’s a bit uncanny valley, not gonna lie.” The men shuffled uncomfortably at that, so she hastily continued, “Right, well. Your new assignment. I’m sure you’ve all noticed that… well, you’re all here. To cut to the chase, you’re done fighting. Each other, I mean. From now on, you fellas are allies. You’re working together.”
That caused a wave of uneasy shuffling amongst the gathered men, and more than a few displeased words. A disgruntled tch from the Blu Medic, shifting his booted feet in agitation. Another deep glare from the Red Sniper, burning into René. A cold, grim stare of deep dislike from the Blu Demo at his Red counterpart, who was too busy yucking it up with his Soldier pal to notice.
“Uh, I’m sorry Miss P.” The Red Scout stood up. “But are you tryna tell me I gotta buddy up with this loser? ” He was referring to the other Jeremy, René’s own son, who bristled at the words. Before Miss Pauling could answer, the Red Spy said, in French, surprisingly, “Jeremy. Do try to refrain from being so immediately unpleasant. I know it is difficult for you, but please try.” The Scout scowled, as if he understood, and then indeed replied in the same language, “I’ll say what I like, dad. I’m the Scout here, not the scrawny little Blu bitch.”
Interesting. So the Red Scout spoke French. René wondered what other differences between all the mercs may become apparent with a little scrutiny. He was so fascinated by the idea that he forgot to be annoyed that the Red Scout called his own son a bitch.
“Listen, I know it’s a big change,” Miss Pauling was saying, waving her mittened hands to drag everyone’s wavering attention back to her. “But it won’t be all that different to before. There is something here in this town that Mister Hale wants to keep safe. And naturally, you fellas were the first choice for the gig.” She was trying to flatter them. It worked on some of the gathered men, René not included. “What exactly are we s’posed to be protectin’? And from whom?” This was from the Blu Engineer, Dell, scratching his beard thoughtfully. René wagered the short Texan could probably give a pretty good guess. Australium, and other mercenaries, most likely.
Instead, Pauling said, “Um. I don’t know what you’re protecting. But you’re protecting it from robots.” Alright. Not the answer he had been expecting. A quiet drifted over them all briefly, before Dell frowned, and said, “…Robots?” Miss Pauling nodded, and went to answer, but at that moment, Bidwell came trotting back into the room, and the look on his face made her words die in her throat.
“Uh. Bad news, folks,” Bidwell said breezily. “As it turns out, the dates got mixed up. Your supplies were supposed to arrive three days before you. But it seems you’ve arrived three days before them instead. So…”
A pause. Then chaos.
René could understand well enough. A fair few of the men here were completely deranged after all. He watched some of the others stomp and rage, the Medics simultaneously crying, “My doves!” before glaring at each other. All sorts of complaints made themselves known. They were going to freeze. They were going to starve. There were no cigarettes, no booze, no nudey mags. Voices rose higher and higher, and Miss Pauling put her mittens on her hips and yelled, “Put a sock in it!”
The room fell quiet. Miss Pauling huffed a sigh of annoyance, but whether it was at the mercs or the general situation was unclear. Regardless, the men were cowed, and the majority looked to her, doe eyed, to fix the predicament. What she said was, “You can survive three days. You’re all… well, you’re mostly all resourceful and smart. Three days is nothing. There’s no blizzards incoming, and there may be things left in the town that you can scavenge. I have faith in you.” That was generous of her. René did not share a similar faith.
Taking a deep breath, Pauling stood up straighter, and said, “Right. Just a minor hiccup. Back to business.” She held a hand out to Bidwell, who passed her a clipboard. Consulting it briefly, Pauling said, “As I said, you will be protecting this place from robots. Now I’m fairly sure we can keep this place on the downlow until your supplies have arrived and Mr. Conagher and Mr. Conagher can get the respawn machine fired up. So you should have some time to settle in and get used to each other. I’ve taken the liberty of assigning a couple of duties. Red Medic. Blu Spy. Step forward please.” The two men glanced at each other, mildly hostile, before slipping out of formation to stand before the small woman. “You two are somewhat the de facto leaders of your individual teams,” Pauling said, which led to a muttered, “ excuse me?!” From the Blu Medic. He was ignored.
“As such,” Pauling continued, “I am putting the general welfare of this combined team in both of your hands. I know this will be a big adjustment, but I’m sure you can make this work. I trust you can put aside your differences to work together.” René glanced at the Red Medic, who grinned at him like a shark. Cocking an eyebrow, he looked back to Miss Pauling. “ Naturellement.” He said, and she nodded once. “Good. I’m counting on it.”
Despite inquiries for more information, or perhaps some fuel to start a fire, both Pauling and Bidwell were eager to leave, citing having to catch a plane on the edge of town. “I will contact you with more information when the supplies arrive,” Pauling assured. “Your work won’t start before then. In the meantime, stay warm, stay alive, try find what you need in town. You’ll be fiiiiine.”
Fine was perhaps an overstatement. Once Pauling and Bidwell had left, traipsing through the snow to their awaiting Cesna, an uneasy quiet fell over the gathered mercs. Many were shivering, and looked a little lost, huddling close to their respective friends for some form of comfort in familiarity. Sighing internally, René glanced to the Red Medic, his, for want of a better word, Co-captain. The Medic did not look stressed, or even particularly concerned, and merely stated, “Well. Everyone put on your warmest clothes before you get frostbite. I do not currently have my medigun, so any fingers or toes lost over the next several days may remain lost,” the Blu Medic raised his hand and said, “I do have my medigun,” but was summarily ignored.
The mercs began to sullenly gather their luggage and root through it for warmer clothes. By now they were well used to being at the mercy of Mann Co’s whims, though this seemed like a particularly cruel move. The company really did hardly treat them like people at all sometimes.
Helping his Pyro wrestle themselves into a cable knit turtleneck, the Red Engineer said, “There’s gotta be a boiler room here somewhere. A furnace. If we can get that goin’ we’ll have power and water at least.” The Blu Dell, who was scoping out the entryway’s electrics, replied, “That may be, but I wouldn’t count on there bein’ no fuel, hoss.” It was the first time the mercs as a whole noticed two of the same class talking directly to each other since they’d arrived, and it had a funny effect on a lot of the others. Many of them paused in pulling on sweaters and warm socks to glance at their counterparts, as if studying them properly for the first time.
René could tell there were varying differences between the mercs, some more obvious than others. His own Engineer for instance, sported a neat, strawberry blonde beard and prescription glasses, and was a little shorter and trimmer than his Red counterpart. The Blu Medic too was shorter than the Red, and his shoulders and chest were not so broad. In comparison, the Blu Pyro was almost a full foot taller than the Red. René was sure he would notice more subtle and not so subtle differences with time. As it was, he pulled his overcoat tighter around him, and said, “Mayhaps both the Engineers could check it out regardless? On the off chance we get lucky, non?” The two Texans glanced at each other, before shrugging in unison.
The Red Medic, eager to join in on bossing people around, said, to his own team member, “Herr Sniper, perhaps you could track us down some dinner?” The Australian bristled, and replied, “In this weather? Are you bloody joking mate?” The Medic just smirked, all teeth, and said, voice singsong, “I’m in chaaaarge.” The Sniper scowled, but thankfully the Red Heavy stepped between the two and said, “I will go with skinny Australian. Make sure he does not die of hypothermia.” Well that was settled then. René waved his hands at the rest of the men, and said, “Perhaps everyone else can begin to scavenge in the town and here in the factory. I’m sure there must be something of use left over.”
And so it was settled, the various mercenaries splitting up to hopefully find enough to keep them going for three days. René noticed that the majority of the Reds stuck together to search the factory, and likewise the Blus huddled close as they made their way into town. It seemed it was going to be hard to break old habits and see enemies as allies. As he stood, contemplating, the Red Medic came up to stand beside him. The doctor held up a small, enameled hip flask, and offered, “Sherry, herr Spy?”
“Revolting stuff,” René said, but held his hand out for the flask, “ Oui, merci.” The Medic cheerfully handed him the flask, and put his hands behind his back. “This is going to be an unmitigated disaster,” the German said, though he didn’t sound overly concerned about that fact. René sighed.
By the time the late afternoon sun was beginning to set, the teams were regrouping to share their efforts. Dell had been right. While there was a functional furnace in the basement, there was no coal or oil with which to fuel it, and so no way to get the electricity or water working. The others had been more successful however. The Red Heavy came back carrying an immense elk, dead by a neat bullet through the heart. The Sniper trailed behind him, miserable and shivering, but quickly received some well earned praise and coddling from his teammates. Even the Blu Sniper gave a soft and begrudging, “Nice shot, mate,” of his neat kill.
The others had had some success as well. The Red team had found a plethora of ancient, dry rotted wooden furniture in the offices of the factory, and were able to light adequate fires in a series of empty metal drums. Meanwhile, the Blus had collected a selection of various useful items from the town, among them some ratty woollen blankets, some pots and pans for collecting snow to melt, and a single ancient tin of coffee, which all eighteen of them eyed with a vague ferality to their gaze.
They all hunkered down for the evening, sorting through their meager loot. The Sniper crouched down to deal with the corpse of the elk, but fumbled his ridiculously huge knife. “Bugger.” He said, “Someone else is gonna have to dress the bloody deer, my hands are too bloody cold.” To which the Blu Scout said, “Dress it? The fuck are you puttin’ clothes on our damn dinner for when we’re all freezin’ our nuts off here?”
The Sniper gave René’s son a long, hard look that said he couldn’t figure out if the young man was serious or not. Meanwhile, the Blu Sniper had come to crouch by the elk, and took the knife, saying, “No worries, mate, I’ve got it.” The Red Sniper’s head turned to regard the other mistrustfully, but even he had to concede it made sense. Eventually, his Pyro came over, and lured him away with the offer of unnaturally warm hands to heat the Sniper’s own. The Australian accepted grudgingly, and the Pyro pulled their friend’s hands inside the cuffs of their own sleeves to try and warm them. “Thanks, firebug,” the Sniper said, voice softening infinitesimally, and from under the enormous hood the Pyro wore, René just about heard the murmured, “No problem, Mick.” He looked away quickly, a little unsure what the Reds might do at the clear violation that was hearing their Pyro speak. The Blu Pyro did not speak, and as such it came as a bit of a surprise to him.
At one of the barrels, Red Scout shivered miserably, until his father came up behind him, and draped his own fashionable, tweed overcoat over the young man’s shoulders. “ Merci, papa.” The Scout said grudgingly, seemingly embarrassed by the kind gesture. Next to René, his own Jeremy said, “Hey, why don’t you give me your coat?” And without missing a beat, he replied, “I don’t know, why don’t you speak French?” Jeremy glared at him, snapping, “Dick.” Before stalking away in sulky irritation.
Once they were all settled in for the evening, huddled around the fires with their ragged blankets, gnawing on charred elk with varying degrees of enthusiasm, the divide between the teams became even more apparent. As per usual, only the Blu Soldier and Red Demo were comfortable conversing across teams, now more openly than ever. The rest just stared defensively around, as if afraid that someone was going to pull a knife, or a gun, or perhaps a rocket launcher out of their pocket.
In the end it was the Red Heavy to made a move, but it wasn’t a gun he pulled out. The big Russian stood, and said, “Enough. Everyone being silly. So unfriendly. We will be friends now. Come. We play Go Fish.” He held up the pack of playing cards he had taken from his coat pocket. There was a pause, and then slowly, tentatively, the Blu Pyro stood, and went to join him as he sorted out the cards. Then the Red Engie, and the Blu Sniper, until both teams were, if not playing together, at the very least, they were within fifteen feet of each other.
“ Ça ira.” René looked to his left, to see his Red counterpart sitting down, and offering him a glass of red wine from seemingly nowhere. This will be fine. This will be fine. He wished he believed that.
*
Ludwig was not happy. Not that he believed any of them really were, but he could not even pretend to be going along with all this ridiculousness. The other men had so quickly settled in around the fires, keeping warm, acting friendly. How could they all be so calm with this ridiculous situation. He stayed on the outskirts, just outside the firelight, keeping an eye on the exits. Miss Pauling said she was sure they would not be attacked, but who could know really. There was no respawn machine to catch their fall.
He knew he looked as though he were sulking. But he felt he had a right to. That blasted Red Medic had been selected to lead them, and instead of being asked to join him, Ludwig had been overlooked in favour of René? He knew that the Blu Spy was a very capable worker, but surely Ludwig had the upper hand when it came to team interactions. He was their doctor for goodness sake, he knew all he could about them.
Misha had came to check on him a little while ago, and to drape a threadbare blanket around his shoulders. “You are cross, Wolfgang.” The Blu Heavy had said, and Ludwig had scowled, and said, “I do not wish to talk about this now. Someone must be on watch, so I am.” Misha had shrugged, and patted his shoulder, and left him alone. That had been an hour ago, and now his knees ached from the cold, and from standing, and his eyes were tired from straining into the dark.
Ludwig pulled the blanket tighter around himself with icy fingers, muttering angry German oaths to himself. That damned Saxton Hale. Oafish Australian lout, treating them like toy soldiers to be moved around and played with. He was going to ask for a contract redo once this was over. As he stood, back to the chattering group, Ludwig heard boots approaching, and then Mick, the Blu one, was standing next to him. The sniper tapped a tin cup against his arm, and said, “Coffee, doc. You look cold over here.”
Ludwig took the cup, feeling how its heat made his freezing fingers tingle despite his gloves. He took a sip, and gagged, giving the sniper a disgusted look. Mick just shrugged, said, “Just a nip of whiskey. That Red Engie had some. Figured you could do with it.” It was vile tasting, but Mick was right. Ludwig sighed, and sipped his drink some more. The sniper leaned against the wall beside him, studying him from behind those tinted glasses. Ludwig wasn’t sure how the man even saw him in the low light. “You’re sore about all this,” the lanky Australian commented, and Ludwig countered, “Are you not?”
Mick only shrugged, ever easy going, and replied, “Same bullshit, different day. Bit cold, sure. We’ll live.” Ludwig made a disgruntled noise, and Mick gave a little snort. “You really don’t like that other doctor, do you?” Ludwig shot him a deep glare. He hated how observant the sniper could be. Instead of answering properly, he hissed, “I am more than capable of… of anything he can do.” Mick crossed his arms, then his legs, at the ankle, still leaning against the wall. “Don’t need to tell me that, doc, I’ve watched you do it for years.” Ludwig’s gloved fingers tapped distractedly on the tin cup, and Mick leaned in, and said, “We know. We all do. You are our doc, alright? Just because Pauling put him in charge. It doesn’t change anything, mate. We’ll all still be running to you to kiss it better.” Ludwig looked away. “You’re right about one thing,” he said, “I am the doctor. Mister Ludwig over there on the Red team doesn’t even have a medical license, not anymore.”
Mick’s eyes widened at this little piece of bitchy gossip, and Ludwig smirked about it. The sniper gave a little chuckle and said, “Figures. The whole bloody Red team seems feral.” He looked thoughtful, “Guess that’s a helpful difference though. Mister and Doctor. Can’t be walking around just calling the both of you Ludwig, it’ll get confusing.” Ludwig laughed at that, garnering a couple of glances from the group, and said, “Ah, sure, my friend. Try referring to him as Mister, see how well that goes down. You’re right though, of course. This is going to get out of hand. I am Wolfgang Ludwig, he is Wolfgang Ludwig. You are Mick Mundy, as is the other sniper. It will be enough to drive us mad, hm?”
Mick shrugged, and said easily, “I could be Michael, I don’t care all that much.” But Ludwig just tittered and replied, “Gracious, with you and the Heavy’s, we shall have a Mick, Michael, Misha, and Mikhail. I rather think we shall all lose our minds.” Mick only hmm’d at that, as they both took that rare moment to dwell on the oddness of the overall situation, the matching names, the uncanny similarities between the men. It was not something any of them liked to discuss, as on a fundamental level, it was unnerving. They did not know why it was like this. And really, they did not want to find out.
Thankfully, they were distracted from that train of thought by Dell, their Dell, taking out a travel guitar, to varied enthusiasm from the rest of the group. After conferring with the Red Engie, the two Texans settled into a duet. Some song about a country man from Oklahoma, and the woman he loved who had moved away to be a star in California. With two men singing it, it definitely had a different kind of inference, particularly with the exceedingly sincere way both the engineers looked at each other as they sang. Ludwig found himself glancing again at Mick, and the sniper smirked and said, “This is all bound to get a bit weird isn’t it? Eighteen men alone in a snowy wasteland. Who do you think will be, er, making new friends first, eh? Aside from Jane and their Demo of course.”
Ludwig couldn’t help but snicker at that. He looked around the gathered group, wondering who might break and seek the warm comfort of another’s bed first. Truthfully it could have been any of them. Not him obviously, he was impervious and aloof and was very certain he didn’t need anyone. But the rest were all just mere men. He smirked at Mick, and said, “I suppose we shall just have to wait and see.”