Fight Club **More gay version**

by Mili_8a

Summary:

After an accident, the losers Scout and Heavy will have to create a self-defense club to avoid getting expelled from school. Heavy will navigate his feelings for the German student, and Scout just wants to meet a girl. Too many punches, too much blood, and above all, way too much homosexuality will be experienced in the shabby school self-defense club.

...

A loose adaptation of the movie "Bottoms."

Chapter 1

Notes:

Y si te parece que yo estoy enamorado tuyo
Eso es un invento, intuyo, no des crédito a murmullos
Porque casi nunca llamo para decir que te amo
Y más de una vez lo hice a un número equivocado
Casi nunca nadie dice que yo estoy enamorado tuyo
---
"Enamorado tuyo" Song By Cuarteto de Nos

"Tonight’s definitely the night, and you know it, you big bastard."

The words floated in the thick, humid air, mingling with the sweet scent of magnolia blossoms that drifted through the half-open window. It was the last night of summer, and the whole town seemed to sigh beneath the weight of a melancholy that had grown tangible in every corner, in every shadow stretching lazily under the streetlamps on Main Street. The heat had been relentless all through August, but now, in the final gasps of the season, it had turned sticky and nostalgic, as if the very air knew something was about to end forever.

The next day, inevitably, they’d have to cross the threshold into high school, that unknown and terrifying territory rising like a mountain before the eyes of every adolescent. Jeremy Willis, freshly sixteen, stood in front of a mirror fogged up by the humidity, studying his reflection with the intensity of a scientist examining a new species. Jeremy—Scout, as his classmates had dubbed him in one of those cruel naming ceremonies only teenagers are capable of—was the living image of lanky youth in transition.

His scrawny body was swallowed up by a T-shirt that had once belonged to his older brother, now hanging on him like a badly cut sack. His brown hair, chopped unevenly by his mother with dull scissors, resisted any attempt at styling, forming small rebellious swirls that gave him a perpetually tousled look. His front teeth, disproportionately large for his still-boyish face, gave him a smile that teetered between endearing and comical, depending on the angle and lighting.

"It’s been years since we looked like crap, and now we’re grown… at least I’m almost grown. I’m at the very start of my sexy phase," he muttered with a confidence that clashed dramatically with his appearance, flexing nonexistent muscles and tilting his head to admire his profile.

The room where Scout stood was a universe unto itself, a chaotic cosmos of words and thoughts that had taken on a life of their own. The walls, once painted a faded blue, had almost completely vanished beneath layers upon layers of paper. Loose pages covered in hurried handwriting, newspaper clippings, torn-out pages from literary magazines, and fragments of notebooks overlapped like the scales of some great paper dragon. Handwritten poems in blue ink mingled with quotes from Hemingway and Kerouac, forming a textual tapestry that spoke of sleepless nights and desperate searches for meaning.

In the corners, mountains of books rose like literary Towers of Babel, threatening to collapse with the slightest movement. Paperback novels were stacked beside philosophy volumes stolen from the public library, while slim poetry books hid in the cracks like secret treasures. The bed, barely visible under even more piles of paper and manuscripts, looked like an altar devoted to the written word. A chipped wooden desk disappeared beneath the weight of portable typewriters, notebooks filled with crossed-out lines, and plates overflowing with forgotten food remains.

But that room, that sanctuary of adolescent literature, did not belong to Scout. It was the kingdom of someone else, someone whose presence was felt in every word taped to the walls, in every carefully placed book, in every poem scribbled in the margins.

"I’m telling you, man, tonight I’m gonna get to touch at least a little of the sacred female body. Tonight, a girl’s gonna break in my bed, and I’m gonna break into manhood," Scout declared, raising his fists into the air as if he’d just won an epic battle.

"Shut the damn hell up already." The voice came from deep within the closet, rough and laced with an accent that spoke of cold, distant lands. "No one’s gonna want to go out with you, just like no one’s gonna want to go out with me. Just like every other year before, just like every year to come."

Emerging from the closet like a bear coming out of hibernation, the true owner of the literary room appeared. Mikhail Volkov was what any casting director would have picked as the perfect stereotype of the Russian immigrant in America. He had arrived in the country just a couple of years before, along with his mother—who cleaned offices at night—and his three younger sisters, who were still struggling to master English in elementary school.

Mikhail, known as Heavy by both enemies and friends, had turned seventeen the previous month without a single celebration. His body was an imposing construction, a fascinating mix of youthful fat and genuine muscle that made him look more like a professional wrestler than a high school student. He was already taller than most of the town’s teenagers, even starting to rival some adults. His hair, shaved almost to the scalp with a homemade trimmer, gave him a military air that contrasted strangely with his age. His eyebrows, perpetually furrowed, arched over gray eyes that always seemed to be evaluating the world with a blend of distrust and weariness.

"Tonight I'm going to talk to a real girl. It's about time Jeremy Willis got in the game of love," exclaimed Scout, still staring at his reflection in the mirror with the determination of a general before battle.

"You really think it's time?" asked Heavy, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his lips as he adjusted a leather jacket he had bought from a secondhand store. "Why exactly did you wait fifteen long years to even attempt the slightest contact with the opposite sex?"

"At least I'm trying to have a meaningful conversation with a representative of the female gender," replied Scout with nervous laughter, turning to face his friend. "And what about you, big guy? Are you even going to say hi to Ludwig? Or are you going to keep admiring him from a distance like a professional stalker?"

The mention of that name made Heavy click his tongue in irritation, but he couldn't deny the comment had hit its mark. In that small conservative town of the seventies, where secrets were whispered behind lace curtains and gossip traveled faster than the wind, Heavy didn’t have many options when it came to choosing companionship.

Being a gay teenager in a time and place where such an identity was not only frowned upon but potentially dangerous meant his social options were virtually nonexistent. He had to settle for the company of someone who stood at his same level in the high school social hierarchy—and Scout, with his scrawny body and his tendency to spit out bold comments that constantly got him into trouble, was just as much a pariah as he was.

Scout was well known as the favorite target of the school bullies, those boys who had grown up too fast and who found in humiliating others a way to cope with their own insecurities. His skinny frame and big mouth made him the perfect mark for cruel jokes and "accidental" shoves in the hallways. Neither of them had many friendship options, so they had ended up becoming something like friends, bound more by mutual need than by true affinity.

"Sure, and what exactly am I supposed to say to him?" Heavy muttered, running a hand over his shaved head as a bitter smile tugged at his face. "'Hey Herbert, how’s it going? How’s your gorgeous girlfriend doing? Are her boobs still as big and perfect as every teenage American breast I’ve seen in the movies?'"

"Maybe they broke up," murmured Scout, the weariness in his voice clear as he flopped heavily onto the bed, as if the weight of all his inexperience had just come crashing down on him. "This fair could be the beginning of something totally new for both of us."

"No, Scout, my dear naive friend." Heavy stepped up to the mirror, examining his reflection with a mix of resignation and resolve. "I'm playing the long game, you understand? I’ve got a master plan that stretches across decades."

He turned to Scout, his gray eyes gleaming with an intensity that spoke of many sleepless nights spent crafting this moment.

"Look, this is exactly how my strategy works. I don’t talk to him for years—decades even. I let life take its natural course. Then the twenty-year high school reunion comes around, that pathetic event where all the failures gather to pretend their lives meant something. I find him there, and what do I find? He’s going to look like absolute shit. He’ll have premature gray hair and receding hairlines that give him a desperate vibe. He’ll probably have gone through five traumatic divorces and be legally, completely bankrupt, with his self-esteem shattered and dragging behind him."

Heavy paused dramatically, enjoying Scout’s attention.

"And that’s when I show up, wearing a flawless white suit like the proud gay man I’ll be by then, with the success and confidence I’ll have built over all those years. Bam! The perfect opportunity to finally be with him—when he's vulnerable and needy."

Scout looked at his friend with a mix of admiration and horror, unsure whether the plan was brilliant or completely insane. His expression didn’t show much enthusiasm for such a long-term strategy.

"How about you just shut up and let’s get to the damn fair already?" was all the younger boy managed to say, getting up from the bed and heading to the door with a determination that contrasted sharply with his apparent hopelessness.

The fair awaited them, its colorful lights flickering in the distance, its promises of cotton candy and first loves, and the possibility—no matter how remote—that tonight might really be different from all the others.

...

The smell of freshly popped popcorn and hot oil rose from the heart of the fair like an aromatic cloud that wrapped around everything in its path, mixing almost obscenely with the sweet scent of spun cotton candy and the sharp, metallic tang of machines that had been running nonstop all week. The multicolored lights stretched out before them like a massive bioluminescent beast that had landed on the high school football field, completely transforming the familiar space into something magical and foreign. Red, blue, yellow, and green bulbs blinked in hypnotic sequences, creating kaleidoscopic patterns reflected in the glassy eyes of small children and the dilated pupils of teenagers who had managed to sneak in with a bottle of liquor stolen from their parents' cabinets.

The mechanical creak of the rides, that rhythmic, metallic sound that spoke of rusted gears and structures that probably should have been inspected more carefully, blended with the screams of terror and delight from the passengers. The high-pitched shrieks of girls on the roller coaster intertwined with the deep laughter of boys trying to impress them, creating a chaotic symphony that could be heard from miles away.

Tonight was officially the last night of summer, the final sigh of a season that had been particularly cruel in its slowness. But with the inevitable start of the school year came something that completely transformed the town’s social dynamics: the new football championships.

Celebrating the football players had become the fair’s official excuse, though everyone knew the real reason was to give the townsfolk one last chance to pretend their lives had the excitement and drama of a Hollywood movie. Posters taped to light poles proclaimed “SUPPORT OUR WARRIORS!” with blurry photographs of seventeen-year-old boys dressed in uniforms far too big for them, posing with expressions meant to look fierce but ending up more like they were trying not to poop.

Scout seemed entirely in his element, his eyes shining with an almost manic excitement as he tugged Heavy’s arm with surprising strength for someone his size. The Russian grunted in clear reluctance but started walking toward the massive crowd of people bunched up at the entrance like a herd of noisy, colorful sheep. His heavy steps contrasted sharply with Scout’s jittery hops, creating a lopsided rhythm that spoke volumes about the forced nature of their friendship.

Inside the fair, everything was exponentially more animated and noisy than the makeshift parking lot where they’d left their bikes. It was as if they had stepped through a portal into a parallel dimension where the laws of social physics worked in completely different ways. Here, nerds could pretend to be cool for one night, shy girls could act like divas, and boys like Scout could convince themselves they had even the faintest shot with the opposite sex.

The food stands stretched in a seemingly endless line, each greasier and more tempting than the last. Hot dogs dripping with mustard and ketchup, burgers the size of dinner plates, fries swimming in oil that had probably been used to fry fish the week before, and sodas so sweet they could cause instant diabetes. Everything smelled like heaven and tasted like a heart attack—but that was exactly the magic of the fair.

“I am definitely in my natural habitat,” declared Scout as he walked with a confidence that might have been admirable if it weren’t so utterly unjustified. His chest puffed out like a peacock putting on a show, and his arms swung with an exaggerated rhythm that was meant to look casual but ended up looking mechanical and rehearsed. Heavy just grunted in what could generously be interpreted as moral support.

But Scout wasn’t paying the slightest attention to his companion. His gaze, as focused as a predator spotting prey, had zeroed in on a group of girls casually walking beside them, all apparently in the same grade. They wore dresses clearly chosen for this specific occasion, with hemlines daringly hovering several bold fingers above the knee, challenging both the town’s unwritten rules of decency and their mothers’ desperate pleas before they left the house.

Their hair had been styled with the precision of professional hairdressers—some in elaborate updos that must have taken hours to perfect, others loose in waves shaped by hot rollers and industrial quantities of hairspray. Their lips glistened with strawberry-flavored gloss, and their eyes were lined with a precision Cleopatra herself would’ve been proud of.

"Hello, lovely ladies," declared Scout with the grandiosity of a Shakespearean actor addressing his audience. "You’ll be thrilled to know that both my bed and my lips are completely open and available to any of you who wish to take advantage of this generous offer."

The silence that followed was the kind of silence that usually precedes natural disasters. The girls turned to look at him with all the disgust a group of sixteen-year-olds could collectively summon, their faces transforming into masks of revulsion so perfectly synchronized it was as if they had rehearsed the reaction for weeks. Without saying a word, they walked away from the duo with a wounded dignity that would have made a dethroned queen proud.

As they walked off, their voices rose in a collective murmur that needed no translation to be understood. The insults, though whispered, were clearly aimed primarily at Scout, with a few occasional jabs at Heavy by association.

"They hate you," Heavy muttered with a mockery tinged with genuine compassion. "Maybe you should consider taking your lips—and the rest of your anatomy—out of service for the rest of the night, before someone calls the cops."

Now it was Scout’s turn to growl, a sound that came from the depths of his wounded pride like the whimper of a mortally injured animal.

"They’re using the sophisticated psychological technique of push and pull," declared Scout with the same unshakable conviction a religious fanatic might use to defend his most sacred beliefs. "I read all about it in my mom’s magazines, the ones she hides under the mattress thinking I haven’t found them. It’s a complex process of analysis to determine the exact level of romantic interest from the male suitor. The main tactic involves pretending to feel disgust and revulsion toward the boy in love, thus creating sexual tension that eventually explodes into uncontrollable passion."

His explanation was delivered with the same utter naivety as a five-year-old confidently telling skeptical friends that Santa Claus not only exists, but was personally spotted at the mall last month. The Russian rolled his eyes with a level of exasperation honed through months of friendship with Scout.

"That’s total bullshit and you know it," said Heavy, crossing his arms, his posture adopting the stiffness of someone preparing for a verbal battle he’d already fought too many times.

Scout had the absolute audacity to gasp in offense, placing a hand on his chest as if Heavy had simultaneously insulted his honor, his family, and everything he held sacred in this world.

"That is pure, scientifically proven female psychology, and you know it damn well," Scout exclaimed with an indignation that might’ve been convincing—if his voice hadn’t cracked slightly at the end, betraying his own insecurity.

But before Scout could continue expanding on his theory about the complexities of the female mind, another group of girls passed strategically beside them, as if they had been waiting for just that moment to make their entrance. All it took were a few skirts daringly floating above the knee and a cloud of cheap-but-effective vanilla perfume for Scout to completely forget his irritation with Heavy and drift momentarily away, trailing after the new arrivals like a dog following the scent of a freshly grilled steak.

Heavy sighed deeply, a sound that carried within it all the accumulated frustration of months spent as the confidant of Scout’s romantic fantasies. But then, as if the universe had decided it was his turn to be tested, he saw him in the distance.

Oh no. There he was.

Herbert Ludwig walked through the crowd with the natural grace of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world, and Heavy instantly felt his hands clench into tight fists, his knuckles whitening with tension. Herbert was the living definition of European perfection transplanted into American soil: porcelain skin that looked sculpted by Renaissance artists, jet-black hair combed to one side with a part so precise it could’ve been drawn with a ruler, small elegant glasses framing eyes the color of the purest lake, and a straight nose descending with the perfect geometry of classical architecture.

His body was slender but clearly strong, the kind of physique that suggested hours spent playing aristocratic sports like fencing or tennis, rather than the sweaty, brutal games that ruled American high school culture. He wore an impeccably ironed white shirt that fit his torso in a way that suggested it had been tailored for him, and pants that clung to his frame like they had been designed by a personal tailor.

Heavy felt the world around him begin to blur, as if someone had adjusted the controls of reality and chosen to fade out everything except Herbert. The sounds of the fair became a distant hum, the lights dissolved into soft halos, and suddenly only the two of them remained in the universe: Heavy, standing there like a nervous, sweating Russian monolith, and Herbert, walking with the unconscious elegance of a gazelle unaware it was being watched by a clumsy, lovestruck predator.

Then Herbert smiled—that kind, genuine smile that showed all his perfectly aligned teeth, a smile that had inspired countless sleepless nights for Heavy. It was the kind of smile that could light up dark rooms and melt iron hearts, a smile that radiated pure goodness and unwavering optimism.

Born in Germany and brought to this small American town just the previous year due to his father’s job at a multinational company, Herbert had managed in very little time to become, quite literally, the Russian’s entire world. He had turned into the central muse of all the poems Heavy scribbled in the dead of night, the silent protagonist of every literary collage he crafted when he couldn’t sleep, the reason he had started reading obsessively about art and philosophy—hoping that someday, somehow, he’d impress him with a deep and intellectual conversation.

Herbert represented everything Heavy believed he could never be: refined where he was rough, elegant where he was clumsy, cultured where he felt like a barbarian. And yet, or perhaps precisely because of that, he had become the object of an obsession bordering on the religious—a silent devotion that turned every school day into an opportunity to observe him from afar, to memorize his every gesture, to imagine conversations he’d never have the courage to start.

But like all beautiful things in Heavy’s life, this moment of silent contemplation couldn’t last forever. The universe, with its cruel sense of humor, decided it was the perfect time for a certain someone to plant himself directly in front of him, completely blocking the image of Ludwig like a particularly annoying solar eclipse.

"Hello, Heavy, my dear friend!" exclaimed a voice that rang out above the fair’s general noise with completely unnecessary intensity. "How are you, my gloriously non-communist comrade?"

The voice belonged to Soldier, who had appeared in front of Heavy like a genie from a lamp—except instead of granting wishes, this particular genie had a habit of ruining perfect moments with his enthusiastic presence and a vocal volume that defied the laws of physics.

"Hello, Soldier," replied Heavy with palpable discomfort in his voice, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of this unwanted social interaction had physically landed on him. Despite the clear reluctance, Soldier looked genuinely radiant with joy at the mere fact that Heavy had responded, as if he had just received the most important validation of his life.

Soldier, whose real name was Jane Doe, was a peculiar creature even by the standards of their small town. At sixteen, he had a build that placed him somewhere between Heavy and Scout in terms of size—smaller than the Russian but considerably taller than the scrawny Scout. His jaw was pronounced and square, as if it had been chiseled by a patriotic sculptor who had decided that weak facial bones were a sign of communism. His blond hair was cut in a military style that he had managed to do himself with an electric razor and a level of determination that compensated for his lack of technical skill.

His obsession with joining the ranks of the United States military bordered on pathological. He had spent the last two years studying military manuals stolen from the library, practicing drills in his backyard, and memorizing the names of American generals with the same devotion that other boys his age reserved for baseball stats. Because most people found it strange and potentially unsettling to refer to a boy with a traditionally female name like Jane, everyone had adopted the nickname “Soldier” with a collective sense of relief that was never explicitly discussed.

"Hey, Soldier!" Scout returned to the group like a human boomerang, interrupting what had threatened to become a painfully awkward silence. His hair was decorated with what looked like bits of blue slushie ice, and there was a wet stain on his shirt that suggested his latest attempt to win over a girl had ended not just in rejection but in physical retaliation. "How was your summer? Still no luck convincing the army to let you join their glorious ranks?"

"No, unfortunately!" exclaimed Soldier with an enthusiasm that seemed completely inappropriate for someone who had just admitted to failure. His eyes sparkled with the kind of joy more fitting for announcing a military victory. "They found my forged birth documents and realized I’m still about two years and three months underage. But it was a valiant effort, and I’m proud to have tried for the good of the homeland."

If Scout and Heavy occupied the lowest steps of the high school’s social hierarchy, Soldier was the basement of that structure. He was the final stop on the social food chain, equipped with a disproportionate love for his country that manifested in ways even the most patriotic adults found slightly disturbing, and a level of stupidity so pure and American it could have made Uncle Sam weep with pride. He was the perfect brainless teenager, with a hunger for patriotic violence that made him the living embodiment of everything the rest of the world found both fascinating and terrifying about America.

"And what are you two doing here at this glorious celebration of freedom?" Soldier continued, gesturing dramatically toward the fair like he was unveiling the wonders of the ancient world. "I never see you at the annual fair, but I’m not complaining at all. You’ve finally decided to join and participate in this beautiful American tradition—the pre-sacred-start-of-the-school-year festival. It’s a rite of passage as American as apple pie and firearms."

He turned to Heavy with a curiosity that lit up his eyes like he’d just remembered something important.

"By the way, Heavy, my dear Russian friend, I never saw you all summer. You vanished completely like the earth swallowed you up. Where were you during all those glorious months of American freedom?"

"You know how it is," interrupted Scout with a mix of venomous sarcasm and barely contained irritation, his eyes rolling with the kind of exasperation perfected through years of practice. "He went back to Russia with his dad to kill communists in the name of freedom. It’s a family tradition, right, Heavy?"

Neither Scout nor Heavy particularly enjoyed talking to Soldier under the best circumstances, but since they all occupied the same dismal rung on the school’s social ladder, their companionship options were limited. It was a friendship forged by mutual necessity rather than genuine affinity—a survival alliance more than anything else.

"You and your father really killed red communists?!" Soldier exclaimed with a level of enthusiasm that threatened to rupture his vocal cords. His fists clenched with patriotic excitement and his eyes lit up as if he had just witnessed the Second Coming of George Washington. "That’s so incredibly patriotic I feel tremendously proud of you both, knowing that despite being technically Russian by birth, you’re not a pair of goddamn red communists!"

Heavy growled with a level of irritation that had grown significantly. The mere fact that Soldier had mentioned his father in that way had struck a particularly raw nerve. His father was an extraordinarily delicate subject, wrapped in layers of family complexities and traumas he was not willing to discuss with anyone—least of all someone like Soldier. In his mind, he was already planning a well-deserved beating for Scout for bringing the topic into the conversation.

"No, Soldier," Heavy tried to explain, his voice laced with a patience that was quickly running out. "My family and I just spent some time camping in the mountains. Nothing more dramatic than that, I assure you."

"You were imprisoned for anti-communist activities?!" interrupted Soldier, his imagination taking off into completely fictional territory. "Is that why you weren’t here all summer?! They took you to a Siberian gulag, didn’t they?! That’s exactly what those bastard communists would do to an American patriot like you!"

The words poured from his mouth like bullets from a machine gun, with no pause to breathe or let anyone else contribute to the conversation. His face had turned red with excitement from his own narrative, and he gesticulated wildly as if conducting a particularly dramatic symphony.

"Yes, exactly," said Scout, crossing his arms with a malicious grin that promised future trouble. "A fascinating tale of survival and heroism."

Just as Heavy was preparing to punch his so-called friend and explain the real situation once and for all, something interrupted them with the force of a social hurricane.

"EVERYONE CLAP AND CHEER FOR THE TRUE HEROES OF OUR GLORIOUS HIGH SCHOOL!"

The voice, amplified by a megaphone, cut through the fair’s noise like a knife through warm butter, and suddenly the entire place transformed into an impromptu parade. A human river of football players swept through the available space, their uniforms gleaming under the fair’s multicolored lights like the armor of modern-day warriors. Their bodies, sculpted by months of intensive training and strict diets, moved with a coordination that spoke of athletic discipline and total dedication.

Close behind the athletes, a squad of cheerleaders burst forth in a riot of color and energy, their perfectly coordinated uniforms shining under the lights as they waved their pom-poms with enthusiasm that defied the laws of physics. Their smiles were so bright they could have lit entire cities, and their movements were synchronized with a precision that would have made a ballet director proud.

Confetti in every imaginable color began to fall from the sky like patriotic snow, instantly transforming the ordinary fair into something straight out of a Hollywood movie. Everyone present screamed and chanted for the players with a fervor bordering on the religious, as if witnessing the return of war heroes rather than teenagers who had spent their summer practicing sports.

"You really went to a gulag for killing communists and escaped like a true American hero?!" asked Soldier with genuine doubt that stood in strange contrast to his earlier enthusiasm, raising his voice to be heard over the deafening celebration.

But Heavy was no longer paying attention to Soldier’s absurd questions. His gaze had been completely captured by something far more devastating than any imagined interrogation about gulags.

There she was: Kiara Palmer, universally known as Kiki. Captain of the cheerleaders, the undisputed queen of the high school social hierarchy, the girl whose name appeared in at least half of the boys’ dreams. Her platinum blonde hair had been styled into perfect waves that moved like liquid silk with every toss of her head. Her hot pink lipstick gleamed under the fair lights like a beacon of teenage femininity, and her cheerleading uniform, immaculately fitted, made her look like she had stepped straight out of a fashion magazine.

She carried her social status with a pride visible from miles away. She was the most popular girl in school—the one who set fashion trends, who decided who was cool and who wasn’t, who could make or break reputations with a single glance or comment.

And there she was, hanging from Herbert’s neck like he was her most prized possession, kissing him with a passion that seemed choreographed for maximum visual impact. Their lips met in a kiss straight out of a romance film, full of promises and shared secrets.

But what truly broke Heavy’s heart wasn’t seeing Kiki kiss Herbert. What killed him inside was seeing Herbert return the kiss with equal intensity, his arms wrapped around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, his face perfectly serene and happy in a way Heavy had never managed to inspire—not even in his most optimistic fantasies.

Heavy looked away, feeling something inside him crack beyond repair. It was completely foolish to feel bad about this, he reminded himself bitterly, the thought tasting like rusted metal in his mouth. Herbert and Kiki were an official couple, a pairing blessed by the gods of high school popularity. Heavy had no right to expect anything beyond watching from afar, writing poems that would never be read, creating collages that would never be seen.

The sigh that escaped Heavy’s lips was deep and full of a melancholy that had taken up permanent residence in his chest over the past few weeks. It was a sigh that held all the unspoken words, all the repressed feelings churning like a silent storm inside him. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, as if the weight of his thoughts were a tangible force pressing down on him with relentless gravity.

Kiki didn’t love Herbert. That truth was so obvious. Everyone knew it, or at least sensed it with that collective intuition that blooms among students, where secrets are whispered between lockers and glances say more than words. Teenagers passing by exchanged knowing looks, some smiling with that malicious satisfaction that comes from witnessing someone else’s drama, others simply watching with morbid curiosity.

To Kiki, Herbert was nothing more than the season’s new toy, a temporary acquisition to flaunt like an expensive accessory. She was the head cheerleader, used to collecting admirers like trophies on a shelf, and Herbert represented something exotic and different to add to her collection. Her eyeliner-lined eyes sparkled with the satisfaction that comes from possessing something others coveted, and her perfect smile bloomed every time she caught the envious gazes of the other girls at school.

Heavy wasn’t in a position to demand Kiki put an end to the charade. Who was he, after all? A stocky boy of Russian descent, with hands too big and a shyness that betrayed him at the worst possible moments. So he bit his tongue until the metallic taste filled his mouth, and stayed quiet, swallowing his words like poisonous secrets buried deep in his throat.

The fair buzzed with the typical energy of summer’s end. Mechanical rides groaned with metallic clamor, conversations overlapped into a constant murmur, and the smell of fried food mingled with cheap perfume and adolescent deodorant.

“Hey, look—it’s Kiki!” Scout’s exclamation sliced through Heavy’s thoughts like a sharp knife. His voice had that high, excited edge that always preceded his worst ideas. “Let’s go say hi, maybe she’ll introduce me to a cheerleader.” Scout’s eyes gleamed with that innocent, desperate hope that defined all his failed attempts to improve his social standing.

Before Heavy could protest, before he could find the words to dissuade his friend from this doomed mission, he already felt Scout’s hand gripping the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him forward with surprising strength for someone so scrawny. His feet moved almost involuntarily, like he was being pulled by an invisible current toward a disaster he could already see coming.

And before he knew it—while his mind was still trying to catch up—he was standing right in front of the blonde. But more importantly, and more terrifyingly, he was close to Herbert. So close he could smell the faint trace of his European cologne, a sophisticated scent that spoke of distant cities and refined cultures. He could see the tiny details: the way light reflected off his glasses, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way his long, elegant fingers curled gently around Kiki’s narrow waist.

Heavy felt every nerve in his body light up, like overloaded wires threatening to short-circuit at any moment. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it—a primitive drum keeping time with his internal panic. His palms were slick with cold sweat, and he had to consciously keep his arms at his sides instead of wiping them nervously on his jeans.

“Hey, girl! I—” Scout began, his voice pitched an octave higher in a desperate attempt to sound casual and charming.

“No.” Kiki’s reply was as sharp and final as a door slammed shut. A single word that held entire universes of rejection and disdain. It was a universal response to any interaction Scout could try, a preventative no that cut off any possibility of conversation. The blonde didn’t even bother to look at him directly, her blue eyes fixed somewhere over Scout’s shoulder, as if he were so insignificant he didn’t merit eye contact.

The silence that followed was deafening. Scout, who was rarely at a loss for words, looked like a statue of salt, his mouth slightly open in a mix of shock and humiliation. When Kiki spoke, people listened. It was an unspoken law universally understood in the school’s hallways. You didn’t want to be on the head cheerleader’s radar—not if you valued your already fragile place in the social hierarchy.

Scout didn’t want to sink further into his nonexistent popularity, that ghostly existence on the margins where he already lived like a social phantom. The silence spread like an oil slick, thick and uncomfortable, filling the space between them with a tension that felt almost physical. Teenagers walking past began to slow down, instinctively sensing the drama in the air, like animals that sense an approaching storm. Some even stopped completely, pretending to do something while eavesdropping.

“By the way, Ludwig.” Scout’s voice shattered the tension like a hammer on glass, but instead of bringing relief, it sparked a new wave of panic in Heavy. “My friend wanted to talk to you.” The words spilled out with the desperation of someone trying to redirect a conversation that had already spiraled out of control.

Now all eyes fell on the Russian like stage lights, illuminating him in a raw, unforgiving glow. Specifically, Herbert’s curious gaze landed on him with a quiet intensity that made Heavy feel like he was being studied under a microscope. Herbert’s eyes, a grayish-blue like stormy skies, narrowed slightly with genuine interest, and a small smile began to form at the corners of his lips.

“No, Scout. You’re mistaken.” The words escaped Heavy’s mouth in a desperate murmur, his rough voice betraying the nervousness he was trying to suppress. His eyes locked onto his friend’s with a glare that could have melted steel—a silent promise of revenge to be carried out later, when there were no witnesses.

Scout was definitely going to end the night with more than one broken bone. Heavy could already picture the many ways he would make his friend pay for this betrayal—each more creative and painful than the last.

“Come on, Heavy. Tell Ludwig all the stuff you wanted to talk about,” Scout pressed, with the annoying insistence of someone who thinks they’re helping but is actually digging a deeper grave. His smile was too wide, too forced, like a desperate salesman trying to close a doomed deal.

Herbert looked even more intrigued. He leaned in slightly toward the Russian, narrowing the distance between them in a way that sent Heavy’s heart racing to dangerous speeds. That kind smile fully bloomed now, revealing perfectly aligned teeth, and those eyes—full of grace and intellectual curiosity—locked onto Heavy with a kind of focus that was both flattering and terrifying.

It was at that moment that Herbert’s small glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose—a simple, natural gesture that shouldn’t have had any significant effect. But for Heavy, it was as if the world had slowed down, as if that tiny movement had been choreographed by the gods for maximum impact. Heavy felt his ears grow hot, a blush spreading from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, betraying his nerves in the most obvious way possible.

The moment crystallized in his memory: the way the multicolored light refracted through Herbert’s lenses, how his eyelashes cast faint shadows across his cheeks, the precise angle of his head tilted with curiosity. It was a moment he knew he would remember with perfect clarity for years, replaying it over and over in his mind like a precious film.

“I thought you were… very German, you know. Your accent is really strong, too German.” The words tumbled from Heavy’s mouth unfiltered, unprocessed, as if his brain had gone on strike at the worst possible time. He spoke without thinking, letting the words spill out like water from a broken dam, with no thought to the consequences or their impact.

Both Herbert and Kiki—and even that bastard Scout—looked at him with a mixture of doubt and disbelief that felt like physical slaps. Their expressions shifted from curiosity to confusion, from interest to alarm. Even the air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an uncomfortable electricity that made Heavy’s skin prickle.

“You have to be careful. Being German here in America, especially since you look so… German…” Heavy kept digging his own social grave with every word, as if he had completely lost control of his tongue. “I’m Mikhail, by the way.” The introduction came at the end like a last-minute addition, adding another layer of awkwardness to an already epically disastrous situation.

The silence that followed was infinitely worse than the first. It wasn’t just an absence of sound—it was a void filled with horror and secondhand embarrassment that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the hallway. Herbert’s kind smile faded like smoke, slowly dissolving until all that remained was an expression of genuine confusion. There was no malice on his face, only the pure bewilderment of someone who couldn’t quite process what he had just heard.

His eyebrows drew together slightly, creating small creases on his forehead as he tried to make sense of Heavy’s words. His head tilted ever so slightly, like an animal trying to interpret a strange sound.

Kiki, on the other hand, had crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive posture that completely altered her body language. Her eyes narrowed with a coldness that could have frozen hell, and her expression hardened until it looked carved in marble. Without saying a single word, with the imperious grace of an offended queen, she took Herbert’s hand in a possessive and deliberate gesture.

The contact was immediate and intentional. Her fingers, painted in pale pink polish, laced with Herbert’s in a display of familiarity that clearly marked territory and claimed ownership. It wasn’t a romantic gesture—it was a declaration of war, a line drawn in the sand that clearly divided sides.

Without a goodbye, without even acknowledging Heavy or Scout’s existence, Kiki began to walk away, gently pulling Herbert along. Her hips swayed with a rhythm that was both decisive and final, like the motion of a freshly pronounced sentence. Herbert followed her, glancing back one last time with a puzzled look before allowing himself to be led away by Kiki’s determined pull.

“I’d recommend not talking to the Russian, I heard he’s one of those…” The words hit Heavy’s ears like poisoned daggers, whispered by Kiki as they passed by him. Her voice was low enough to pretend privacy, but loud enough to ensure Heavy caught every venom-laced syllable.

The words pierced his chest like shards of ice, each one loaded with implications that didn’t need to be completed to be understood. “One of those…”—the phrase hung in the air like an accusation, like a label that, once applied, could never be removed.

Heavy clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the veins in his forearms standing out under his skin like taut ropes. It was a toxic mix of anger and helplessness that surged through his veins like liquid fire. Anger at Kiki for her casual cruelty, at Scout for his well-intentioned stupidity, at himself for his monumental awkwardness.

But above all, it was the shame that consumed him. A shame so deep and searing it felt like it was burning him from the inside out, turning his cheeks into glowing coals. The shame of having been exposed, of having unintentionally revealed parts of himself he had carefully kept hidden.

And tangled with the shame, like poisonous ivy, was insecurity. The insecurity that made him question every thought, every feeling, every imagined moment of connection with Herbert.

As he watched Kiki and Herbert’s figures disappear into the crowd like ships vanishing into the fog, Heavy felt that something fundamental had shifted. There was no going back from this moment, no way to unsay the words that had been spoken or undo the silences that had said too much.

...

“Shit!” Scout’s outburst tore through the night air like a primal wail, heavy with years of rejection and social humiliation. His foot connected with the metal trash can with a force that would’ve been impressive if it weren’t so desperate, sending it rolling several feet before toppling completely.

The metallic crash echoed between the parked cars like the toll of a funeral bell, and the contents spilled out in a reeking cascade onto the cracked asphalt of the fairground parking lot. Empty soda cans clinked as they rolled beneath the vehicles, greasy napkins fluttered in the night breeze like filthy butterflies, and leftover junk food scattered across the ground in a disgusting collage of adolescent waste.

The air was thick with the fading bittersweet scent of the fair: sticky cotton candy dampened by humidity, rancid frying oil, the metallic tang of the rides mingled with the sweat of hundreds of teenagers who had spent the night desperately chasing some kind of social or romantic connection.

“Another damn year without getting anything!” The words tore from Scout’s throat like a wounded animal’s roar, his voice cracking slightly on the high notes, betraying the depth of his despair. His hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides, knuckles whitening with tension.

Heavy walked behind him like a silent, massive shadow, his heavy but measured steps forming a hypnotic rhythm against the asphalt. His pace was slow but relentless, like someone who had accepted a march toward the gallows. His broad shoulders sagged beneath the invisible weight of his own disappointments.

His gaze was fixed on some undefined point on the ground, following the cracks in the pavement as if they were a map to nowhere. The distant lights of the disassembling fair cast dancing shadows around him, making his figure appear even more monumental and melancholic in the semi-darkness.

“We’re fucked!” Scout shouted into the night, the words slicing through the air like an alarm siren, followed by the sharp sound of his foot slamming into the chain-link fence. The metal buzzed with a harsh vibration that lingered for several seconds, like the cry of a tortured instrument.

The impact made Scout stumble slightly, pain radiating from his toes up through his leg, but he seemed to welcome the sting as a distraction from his emotional turmoil. His breathing came in short, furious gasps, forming little clouds of steam in the cool night air.

Heavy stopped his mechanical march when he heard the crash, his feet planting firmly into the ground like deep roots. For a moment, silence stretched between them like a taut rope, filled with all the unspoken words and shattered dreams they shared.

“You know what?” Heavy’s voice finally broke the silence, calm in a way that was more terrifying than any scream. There was a relaxed resignation in his tone, a zen-like acceptance of defeat that sounded oddly mature coming from a teenager. “I’m fine. I accept it. I’m not gonna have a gay romance. I’m tired of trying.”

The words floated in the night air like dead leaves, each one heavy with years of crushed hope and repressed longing. His voice had the flat, monotone quality of someone who had come to the end of a long inner battle and chosen to surrender.

He kept walking with that same slow cadence, his steps echoing against the pavement like a metronome marking the rhythm of his surrender. The lights from the few remaining cars in the lot cast pools of yellowish light that Heavy passed through like a ghost, his massive figure projecting long, shifting shadows with each step.

Scout turned toward his friend with a sudden motion, his skinny body whipping around like a released spring. His eyes sparkled with a mix of panic and denial, as if Heavy’s words had triggered some internal alarm.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” Scout’s voice came out with a fake cheerfulness that fooled no one, least of all himself. It had the sharp, desperate tone of someone trying to talk a jumper down from a ledge, but his own eyes betrayed the hopelessness he felt about his own high school future.

Scout didn’t have much hope to offer either. He had spent the night being rejected by a string of girls who hadn’t even bothered to be polite in their refusals. He had collected enough “no’s” to fill a dictionary, each rejection adding another layer to the armor of insecurity he wore like a second skin.

“I’ll just bottle up my gay impulses and hook up with some girl.” Heavy’s declaration came out too fast, the words tripping over each other in their rush to escape his mouth. His eyes lifted to the night sky with an expression of wariness, as if challenging some cruel deity that delighted in his suffering.

The stars glimmered faintly through the city’s light pollution, tiny points of light that seemed to mock him from their unreachable cosmic distance. The moon, a thin sickle in the sky, watched him with the same cold indifference that had defined his romantic life so far.

“It’s my only hope.” The words fell from his lips like stones into a deep well, each syllable echoing with the desperation of someone clinging to a burning thread. His breathing had grown heavier, as if just voicing that decision required physical effort.

“No!” Scout shouted the word like an exorcism, his eyes wide with stress as he watched his friend walk inexorably toward what he saw as a self-destructive fate. His hands flailed in the air in desperate gestures, as if he could physically stop the words he knew were coming.

But Heavy didn’t stop. His mind had begun operating like a machine of grim predictions, unraveling a hypothetical future with the meticulous precision of a well-documented nightmare.

“And yeah, at some point she’s going to realize it’s men that turn me on.” The words spilled out of him like water from a broken dam, unstoppable and destructive. His voice had taken on a manic quality, rising and falling in pitch as he wandered the dark corridors of his apocalyptic imagination.

“So to prove my masculinity and heterosexuality, we’ll do it without protection, and end up as teen parents. We’ll join a church, and I’ll become the gay pastor. My life is fucked!”

The final scream burst from his throat like a primal roar, charged with all the rage and pain he’d been carrying from years of repression and denial. His fist slammed down onto the hood of a parked car with such force that the entire vehicle shuddered.

The sound of the impact echoed across the parking lot like thunder, a metallic crash that bounced off the surrounding cars and buildings. The metal caved in under his fist, leaving a perfectly round dent that would cost hundreds of dollars to repair.

Scout stumbled back a few steps instinctively, his eyes wide with a mixture of terrified awe and genuine concern for his friend’s mental state. The noise had been so loud and violent that several nearby cars blinked their lights in alarm, creating a flickering light show across the half-empty lot.

But he quickly stepped forward again, following Heavy as he continued his apocalyptic tirade without pause. Scout’s steps were hesitant but loyal, like those of a dog following its master even when it doesn’t fully understand where they’re going.

“And yeah, I’ll give good sermons, but everyone will know I’m gay. Everyone will know!” Heavy continued his monologue with increasing intensity, his arms gesturing wildly in the night air. His movements were broad and theatrical, like a Shakespearean actor performing Hamlet’s mad scene.

“By the way, our son Alexei will hate me because I pretended to be straight and denied him a real childhood, giving him all sorts of paternal trauma.” His voice cracked slightly at the mention of the fictional name, as if the imaginary child was already real in his mind, already suffering for choices Heavy hadn’t even made yet.

“Yeah, and guess what? His mother is having a lesbian affair with the housewife next door!”

And with those words, as if all the energy that had kept him upright through this emotional explosion had suddenly drained, Heavy began to cry. Not quiet, dignified tears; these were deep, wrenching sobs that shook his massive body like internal earthquakes.

The tears streamed down his cheeks in salty rivers, catching the dim parking lot lights like tiny liquid diamonds. His breathing became uneven, broken up by sobs that seemed to rise from the deepest parts of his chest, from a place where he had locked away years of pain and loneliness.

Scout stood frozen for a moment, completely overwhelmed by the flood of words and emotions his friend had unleashed. His mind scrambled to process it all—from the apocalyptic scenarios to the genuine pain that had spawned them—but it was too much, too intense, too real.

Not knowing what else to do, Scout simply walked over and hugged his friend. It was awkward at first, his thin arms struggling to wrap around Heavy’s broad back, but it gradually became firmer, more certain. It was the kind of hug given by someone who didn’t have the right words, but who could at least offer physical presence, human warmth, the silent promise that he wasn’t alone.

Heavy accepted the hug without hesitation, without his usual masculine pride or discomfort with physical contact. He let himself be held by his smaller friend, his huge shoulders trembling with each sob, his head leaning down to rest on Scout’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to live like this…” The words came out muffled against Scout’s shirt, wet with tears and mucus, but filled with a vulnerability so pure it hurt to hear. “Promise you’ll visit us on Sundays? Please, will you visit us on Sundays…?”

The question was both absurd and heartbreaking. Heavy was still trapped in his imaginary future, begging Scout to visit his fictional family in that hypothetical life of misery and repression. But beneath the absurd surface, the plea was real: it was the fundamental fear of being alone, of being abandoned by the only people who truly knew him.

Heavy sobbed with such force that his entire body convulsed, his tears soaking Scout’s shirt until it was completely wet. Scout just nodded awkwardly, gently patting his friend’s back while murmuring comforting words that were lost in the night wind.

The moment could have lasted forever, suspended in that bubble of shared pain and unconditional friendship, but Scout noticed something strange in the distance that broke his concentration. A female figure was shouting as she walked quickly, her screams cutting through the night air with an urgency different from the emotional drama they had just witnessed.

Behind her, a larger male figure followed with determined steps, his movements aggressive and territorial even from afar. When Scout squinted to focus better in the semi-darkness, he could make out the figures more clearly.

“It’s Kiki and the captain of the football team!” The exclamation slipped from his lips with genuine surprise. They seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument, their dramatic gestures and raised voices creating a scene visible even from the considerable distance that separated them.

Kiki, even in her apparent distress, maintained the natural grace that characterized her, but there was something different in her posture. Her usual confident movements seemed more tense, more defensive. Her arms moved expressively as she spoke, occasionally glancing over her shoulder as if looking for an escape route.

The team captain, a mountain of muscle and testosterone Scout knew was named Mark, followed her with the persistence of a predator. His stance was aggressive and dominant, his broad shoulders partially blocking the view of Kiki as he tried to physically corner her in the conversation.

“Looks like Kiki needs our help,” Scout declared with sudden heroic determination, the kind of impulsive courage that arises when someone finally sees a chance to be useful after a night of personal failures.

He abruptly stopped hugging Heavy, his arms separating from his friend’s trembling body to start a determined march toward the distant confrontation. His steps quickened almost into a run, driven by a mix of good Samaritan adrenaline and a desperate need to do something heroic after a night of humiliations.

Heavy sniffled loudly, using the back of his hand to wipe traces of tears and mucus from his face. His eyes were swollen and red, but the emotional crisis seemed to have passed, leaving behind a kind of calm. With few options and no desire to stay alone in the parking lot, he followed his friend toward the unfolding drama.

As they got closer, the voices became clearer, cutting through the night air with a clarity that made both boys instinctively slow their pace.

“I already told you no! And not in front of everyone, at least wait until Herbert’s not here!” Kiki’s voice was sharp and desperate, filled with frustration that seemed to have been building for hours. Her words came in clipped bursts, as if she was struggling to maintain composure while navigating a situation clearly out of control.

Mark, the team captain, was a human mountain of muscle and social privilege. His physique was impressive even under casual clothes. But definitely shorter than Heavy.

He just shook his head with the typical stubbornness of popular athletes, his movements clumsy and aggressive like a bull preparing to charge. His jaw was tense, creating hard lines on his face that would normally be considered attractive but now looked threatening under the flickering parking lot lights.

Mark represented the highest rung of school popularity, the pinnacle of the teenage hierarchy where the football gods lived. He was the kind of guy who had never heard a definitive “no” in his life, especially not from the girls who orbited in his social circle.

“Hey, Kiki. Is something going on?” Scout approached with that artificial confidence boys adopt when trying to be heroic, his voice rising slightly in an attempt to sound more mature and capable than he really felt.

The question made Mark turn toward them as fast as a cobra, his eyes narrowing with immediate malice upon recognizing the two approaching boys. His expression instantly shifted from frustration to pure disdain, as if the mere presence of Scout and Heavy was a personal offense.

“No, loser. Better get lost.” Mark’s words came out like an animal growl, loaded with all the arrogance and contempt he had perfected over years of socially dominating guys like Scout. His voice had that deep, threatening quality he used to intimidate opponents on the football field.

But against all odds, against all expectations based on years of predictable social interactions, Kiki approached the duo unexpectedly. Her heels clicked against the asphalt as she moved with desperate grace, positioning herself strategically behind Heavy as if the Russian boy were a human shield.

Her move was calculated and deliberate, using Heavy’s imposing physical presence as a protective barrier between her and Mark. It was a brilliant social play: using Heavy’s intimidating reputation without directly asking for help, keeping her pride intact while protecting herself.

“Would you be so kind as to accompany me home?” The question left her lips with that false politeness she had perfected to manipulate complex social situations. Her voice had that syrupy, artificial quality she used when she needed something from someone she normally despised.

There was a delicious irony in the situation: the same Kiki who had whispered venom about Heavy just an hour earlier now needed him as protection. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, showed genuine traces of vulnerability she rarely revealed.

“Hey, assholes. You better stay away from her.” Mark shouted with more anger, his voice rising several decibels as he dangerously approached Heavy. His stance grew more aggressive, his chest puffing up like a territorial animal, and his fists clenched at his massive sides.

The muscles in his arms tensed visibly beneath his shirt, creating contours that spoke of countless hours in the gym. His face had flushed with rage, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes beneath his skin, and his eyes shone with that kind of anger that precedes physical violence.

Heavy sighed with a weariness that seemed to come from deep within his bones, a long, heavy exhalation that carried all the emotional fatigue of the night. He had no energy left for more drama; his emotional tank was completely empty after his earlier crisis.

All he wanted was to get home, lock himself in his room, and pretend this night had never happened. He wanted to sink into his bed and sleep until all these confusing feelings and impossible social situations faded away like nightmares at dawn.

“Look, I don’t want trouble, I…” Heavy began in a tired, conciliatory voice, his words coming out slowly as if each syllable required considerable effort. His hands rose in a universal gesture of peace, palms facing forward in a clear indication that he had no aggressive intentions.

But Mark had crossed too close, invading Heavy’s personal space in a way that triggered defensive instincts the Russian boy didn’t even know he had. The physical proximity was threatening and claustrophobic, Mark’s hot breath reaching Heavy’s face with every aggressive word.

Heavy gave Mark a small shove, a gesture that to him was barely a basic act of self-defense. His hands extended and touched Mark’s chest with what Heavy considered minimal force, just enough to create some personal space between them.

It was the kind of gentle push Scout could have easily absorbed, a contact that among friends would be considered friendly. For Heavy, used to his own considerable strength, it was as light as moving a feather.

But Mark fell to the ground as if struck by lightning.

The impact was instant and dramatic. The football team captain, all that muscle and arrogance, collapsed backward like a house of cards in a gale. His feet left the ground, his arms wildly flailing in the air seeking balance that never came, and finally he slammed onto the asphalt with a dry, definitive sound.

His head hit the pavement with a dull thud that echoed across the parking lot, a sound that made both Scout and Heavy involuntarily shudder. His body lay completely still, limbs at odd angles like a puppet with its strings cut.

“You killed him! Murderer!” Kiki’s scream pierced the night air like an ambulance siren, her voice reaching octaves she didn’t know she could hit. Her behavior changed instantly and completely: from using Heavy as protection to accusing him of murder in seconds.

She lunged at Mark’s motionless body with all the dramatic intensity of a soap opera heroine, her heels slipping slightly on the asphalt in her rush to reach him. Her knees hit the ground with a painful thud she completely ignored, her hands trembling as they reached toward Mark’s unmoving face.

“Mark! Mark, wake up!” Her words came out broken between sobs that seemed genuine, her hands gently touching the fallen boy’s cheeks as if she could wake him with caresses. Her makeup started to run from the tears, creating black streaks down her cheeks like paint in the rain.

Scout and Heavy looked at each other with total confusion and growing panic. Their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding: neither of them fully understood what had just happened, but both instinctively knew the consequences would be terrible.

Scout opened and closed his mouth several times like a fish out of water, trying to form words that wouldn’t come. His hands waved nervously in the air, gesturing toward the fallen body, toward Heavy, toward Kiki, as if he could point to some explanation that made sense.

Heavy, for his part, stared at his own hands with growing horror, as if they were weapons he hadn’t known he possessed. The reality of what had occurred began to slowly penetrate his shocked consciousness: a simple defensive shove had resulted in what appeared to be a tragedy.

The parking lot had turned strangely silent, as if the universe itself was holding its breath. Only Kiki’s dramatic sobs and the distant sound of nighttime traffic were heard, creating a surreal soundtrack for the unfolding scene.

Without saying another word, without trying explanations or justifications, Heavy began walking home. His steps were mechanical and determined, like a sleepwalker following a predetermined path. He didn’t look back at the scene he was leaving behind, didn’t offer help or further explanations.

For him, the night had ended in the most abrupt and surreal way possible. It had started with tears of romantic despair and ended with an accusation of murder. It was too absurd, too dramatic, too impossible to be real.

The echo of his footsteps gradually faded into the distance, blending with the city’s nighttime sounds until becoming just another element of the urban soundscape. The night swallowed him like a protective blanket, hiding him from accusing eyes and the questions he knew would come.

Behind him, Scout stood frozen between the impulse to follow his friend and the social responsibility to stay and face the consequences of what had happened. His eyes flickered between Heavy’s disappearing figure and the drama unfolding on the ground, caught in a moral dilemma his teenage mind was not equipped to resolve.

Chapter 2

Notes:

I am unruly in the stands
(I am a rock on top of the sand)
I am a fist amidst the hands
And I make a wreck out of my hand
(I make a fist and not a plan)
And I break it just because I can
---
"Wrecking Ball" Song By Mother Mother

The metallic screech of the bell shattered the morning like a painful reminder. First day of school. The official start of a new cycle full of homework, bitter teachers, senseless rules, and lunches that tasted like cardboard. In the hallways, teenagers dragged themselves along like makeup-free zombies, backpacks slung over one shoulder and dark circles still etched from the last poorly slept hours of summer.

At the main entrance, a banner hung proudly, stretched like both a threat and a promise:
"30 DAYS UNTIL THE GAME AGAINST BLU HIGH SCHOOL."

The letters, huge and red, seemed to scream at the student body that the only reason to endure another year was that damn football game. An event everyone anticipated as if it were the Apocalypse. Or the rebirth. Depending on whether you were on the team—or a pariah like Scout and Heavy.

Heavy walked through the central hallway with his backpack slung over one shoulder, in no rush. With his thick jacket, hunched gait, and naturally scowling brow, he looked more like an exiled laborer than a student. The flickering fluorescent lights above flashed erratically, casting bursts of light onto the worn linoleum floors. The air was thick with the smell of cheap floor wax, freshly opened pencils, and adolescent body spray.

Next to him, like a mosquito who didn’t know when to quit, walked Scout. The boy babbled with his usual fake enthusiasm, gesturing wildly like he was hosting a late-night talk show.

"Last night was great, huh? You can’t deny that," Scout said with a grin stretched from ear to ear, as if he were still living in that bright, music-filled fairground. "Lots of girls checking me out—pretty sure I made a bunch of hearts fall in love. They were sighing all over me, seriously. You should’ve been there, man."

Heavy didn’t answer at first. He walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending not to notice the obvious: the stares cutting into them like blades. Eyes that had been following them since the moment they walked in. Heads turning, subtly—or not so subtly—to track their path. Murmurs rising like echoes behind every student cluster. A magnetic field of hostile attention.

He wasn’t paranoid. He knew the difference between being looked at... and being watched. And it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"I was there," he finally grunted. "And they all rejected you."

"That's debatable," Scout replied, raising a finger as if he could cancel reality just by arguing with it. "The way that girl threw her slushie at me... that was repressed passion."

No reply. Just the low murmur of the hallway, the squeaking of rubber soles, and the ever-present hum of stares that refused to leave. They finally reached their lockers, which of course, were right next to each other. Like everything in their lives: shared, paired, and doomed to the margins.

Heavy's locker had "Loser #1" scrawled on it in white chalk.

Scout's, just to the right, bore an even more obnoxious handwriting and a heart drawn upside down:
"Loser #2."

Scout frowned, crossing his arms with theatrical indignation. "What? How am I number two? You’re supposed to be the sidekick!"

Heavy shook his head. "I don’t have the energy today to argue your place in the hierarchy of failure."

Both of them stared at the scene with a kind of almost comedic resignation. They were used to it by now. Locker insults were just part of daily life—like radio commercials or rocks in your shoes. The only small comfort—if you could call it that—was that the janitor, Ted, was already approaching with his bucket, rag, and disinfectant. The same ritual every Monday. Or whenever someone felt particularly creative with their public humiliations.

"Hey, Ted. How are the kids?" Heavy asked in his deep voice, not as a real greeting, but as part of a shared routine.

Ted looked up without much interest, snorted, and muttered "Still alive" before starting to scrub Heavy’s locker in slow, circular motions. His silence was so familiar it was almost endearing.

And just like that, with nothing more to add, Scout and Heavy walked away from their lockers, resuming their path through hallways lined with lockers and walls painted in institutional beige that looked like they’d been ripped straight out of a prison. But the stares didn’t stop. If anything, they intensified. Heavy could feel them—like invisible needles in the back of his neck. His skin tightened with every step, and his fingers gripped the strap of his backpack with growing tension.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore.

"Hey," he muttered, turning slightly toward Scout. "Don’t you feel like everyone’s watching us?"

Scout, as if suddenly realizing they weren’t alone in the universe, paused briefly and glanced around like a jittery bird. He looked at the other students nearby: some were staring openly, others tried to be subtle, others whispered behind cupped hands.

"I dunno... is your fly down?" he asked, lowering his voice like it was a matter of national security.

Heavy looked down. Zipper? Fully closed. He looked back up and gave Scout a look that said, seriously?

"Nope," he murmured.

Scout shrugged like he’d just been absolved of sin. "Then I have no idea. Maybe we’re just too damn irresistible."

Heavy rolled his eyes. Maybe it was because people were already talking. Maybe someone had seen him punch the car at the fair. Maybe someone had been a little too close when Kiki screamed "You killed him!" in the middle of a TV-drama-level meltdown.

Or maybe, Heavy thought with a knot tightening in his gut, it was just because he was him.

Because he was weird. Because he was Russian. Because he was gay. Because he didn’t fit in.

And the school year had barely started.

They finally arrived at their classroom. Room 2B, with its half-broken blinds and that smell somewhere between old paper and cheap disinfectant, wasn’t exactly a sanctuary… but at least the hallway murmur faded a bit inside. The classroom was small, with wooden desks worn down by generations of bored teenagers who had left behind etchings, signatures, crude genital drawings, dates, and phrases like “THIS PLACE IS HELL” carved in with keys or pocketknives. The ceiling fans were off, and the only sound came from the buzzing fluorescent lights struggling to stay alive.

The teacher hadn’t arrived yet, which gave Scout the perfect excuse to shove the door open harder than necessary and stride in like he owned the place. Heavy followed without a word, slower, hunched, feeling like every step pulled him deeper into a routine he despised. There was no magic in school. Not like in books. Not like in his dreams.

Right at the entrance, they ran into Dell Conagher, better known as Engineer—or Engie for short.

Engie was from southern Texas. His voice sounded like cotton and butter could be mixed into a sound. He was a polite kid, well-mannered and kind. Short—even shorter than Scout—and with a round body that seemed made for hugs, not for ridicule. Engie was also brilliant. His name was a legend on the grade sheets posted on the main bulletin board. If anyone needed to understand the physics of a lever or the social causes of a war, Engie had an answer ready at the tip of his tongue. He was a genius without bragging. And while he couldn’t exactly be called a friend of Scout or Heavy, there was an unspoken pact between them: kindness as neutral territory.

"Hey, Engie," greeted Scout in his usual casual tone, flashing a wide grin—maybe more to pretend everything was fine than to actually make a genuine connection.

But the Texan boy’s reaction was strange. Very strange.

Engie flinched. He paled instantly, like he’d seen a ghost or remembered something traumatic. His gaze locked onto Heavy as if the Russian were a war specter. And without another word, he stammered a barely audible "H-hi..." soaked in fear, then slipped away to his seat at the back of the classroom, leaving behind a thick cloud of discomfort.

Scout frowned. Heavy noticed, because he felt it too. A tense knot in the pit of his stomach. An invisible signal that something—something important—had changed.

"What was that?" murmured Scout as they took their seats.

"No idea," Heavy replied, trying to sound disinterested, though something inside him throbbed hard. Something like suspicion.

The teacher walked in shortly after. A tall, scrawny man with glasses hanging from a little chain around his neck and a face that had been begging for a vacation for twenty years. His briefcase looked as tired as his spirit, and the voice he used to start the class was so dull that even crickets wouldn’t have paid attention.

"Alright, we need to start immediately because we’re already behind," he said, dropping a stack of papers onto the desk with a hollow thud.

Heavy blinked. Behind? How could they already be behind—it was the first day of school. What kind of twisted logic was that?

He kept the comment to himself. The American education system wasn’t his battlefield… yet.

Sighing, he pulled out his notebook and a chewed-up pen. He started copying the first lines of the summary the teacher was scribbling on the board when he felt something. A tap. Persistent. On his shoulder.

He turned his head heavily, already knowing who it was before even looking. Behind him, sitting with terrible posture and a lopsided grin, was Tavish Finnegan DeGroot—or, as everyone called him: Demoman.

A Black Scotsman, with the soul of a pyromaniac and the body of a survivor. Tavish was sixteen, had an illegal collection of firecrackers, a patch over his right eye, and a natural talent for getting into trouble. According to him, in Scotland you could drink at sixteen, and he took that "law" as a blank check to brew what he called Scrumpy—a suspicious, thick, probably flammable liquid that he sold in reused jars to anyone with the courage (and the stomach) to try it.

"Hey, Heavy..." he whispered, in a tone laced more with booze than actual secrecy. "How’d you make that—"

But he didn’t finish the sentence.

The classroom door slammed open.

The bang rang out like a gunshot, and every head turned at once.

There stood Mark, the football team captain himself. Tall, blond, with a million-dollar smile and an ego bloated like a parade balloon. But now he wasn’t walking—he was dragging himself in. With two ridiculously large crutches, making more noise than a drumline. He moved step by step, with such over-the-top theatrics that several students could barely hold in their laughter.

Every time one of the crutches hit the floor, Mark groaned like each movement was a life-threatening ordeal. He looked like a parody of himself. Like he’d rehearsed all night for this very performance.

And his eyes.

That look.

Right at Heavy.

Furious. Hurt. Accusing.

Heavy covered his face with one hand, pressing his fingers against his temples like he could erase the whole universe. He couldn’t believe it. He was pretty sure his push at the fair hadn’t been that strong. Maybe enough to knock him off balance. A light fall. But definitely not enough to cripple the football captain like a war veteran.

Scout, for his part, watched with a mix of disbelief and amusement. He muttered under his breath, "Man, this guy really knows how to put on a show."

Mark stopped right in front of the teacher’s desk. Everyone went silent.

"Teacher," Mark said with a trembling voice—but loud enough for half the building to hear—"I need a special seat. My legs still haven’t recovered from the push I suffered last night..."

The teacher raised an eyebrow.

"It was... traumatic. Very traumatic," Mark added, shooting another deadly glare at Heavy as he dropped into the chair with a sigh that sounded heavily rehearsed.

Heavy wished he could disappear. Or travel back in time and never leave his house last night. Or better yet, never be born in a town where pushing an athlete turned you into public enemy number one.

Heavy felt the weight of all his sins—real or imagined—crashing down on his back like someone had placed an anvil on his shoulders. What sins could a 17-year-old have committed? Maybe sneaking a cigarette, lying to his mom about a few grades, or staying up late writing letters he’d never send. Nothing serious. Nothing that justified the kind of judgment now raining down on him from every corner of the classroom. And yet, here he was—scapegoat of rumors, target of silent ridicule, and the center of suspicious stares.

He could feel Mark’s gaze drilling into the back of his neck. It wasn’t just an angry look. It was that kind of expression that said, *“I’m not done with you,”* the kind of hatred that fed off the attention of others. Theatrical. Sick. Dangerous.

Meanwhile, Scout seemed to have lost all his earlier enthusiasm. He was slumped over his desk, doodling on a sheet of paper like ignoring public attention might somehow make it vanish.

And right behind Heavy, the whispering didn’t stop.

"So, how was it?" murmured Demoman, his voice rough like someone who had drunk too much before breakfast. His eyes gleamed with a curiosity he didn’t even try to hide. "Did he fight back? Beg for mercy? Did you hit him where it hurts?"

Heavy closed his eyes and tried to breathe. A few deep inhalations. He reminded himself not to punch anyone. You can’t go through life solving everything with your fists.

"Seriously, how’d you do it?" insisted the Scotsman, his leg bouncing under the desk with anticipation.

And as if that weren’t enough punishment, from his right side came the booming, absurdly patriotic voice of Soldier.

"For the love of America, Demoman! Heavy went to a gulag! Of course he knows how to inflict pain!"

Heavy clenched his teeth. It felt like electricity running through his nerves. It wasn’t anger. Not yet. It was something worse: resignation.

"I need the details," Demoman continued, like he was recounting an urban legend. "Did he scream or cry? Did you use a weapon? Was there blood?"

Heavy stopped listening. Or at least tried. All he wanted in that moment was for the earth to swallow him whole. Or for someone to scream something loud enough that—

And then, as if the universe had heard his desperate prayer, the school speakers crackled to life with static that made everyone—even the teacher—pause.

"Good morning," announced the slightly distorted voice of Principal Redmond Mann. "This is the principal with important news about BLU High School, so please listen to the account of this victim."

A collective murmur rippled through the room. Scout froze, his pencil suspended in mid-stroke. Heavy tensed.

Then came a girl’s voice. Weak, broken, interrupted by sobs.

“Last night… outside the fair… some guys in blue uniforms with hoods cornered me. They hit me with baseball bats… now my arm’s broken…”

A collective gasp of horror swept through the classroom. The girls exchanged worried glances. Some of the boys looked at each other with concern. Others didn’t know whether to believe it or not.

“Shit…” Scout muttered, face pale, staring at the speaker like it had spoken to him directly.

“The violence BLU High is committing is inexcusable,” the principal continued, now with a firmer, more theatrical tone. “They think they can manipulate us, intimidate us, hurt our weakest. But we will not let them break our spirit. Stay alert. Be brave.”

The message ended with a sharp click, like the final slam of a war speech.

For a moment, the class was completely silent. Only the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the held breath of students filled the air. No one wanted to speak first. No one wanted to be the one who doubted.

Then Soldier broke the silence.

“Those anti-American Soviets are going to kill us!” he shouted, his voice a burst of patriotic hysteria. And for the first time, nobody laughed. Because aside from the “Soviet” and “anti-American” parts, everyone knew something bad was happening.

“Perfect,” Mark growled from his special seat, theatrically resting his crutches to the sides. “More violence. Just what we needed.” He locked his eyes on Heavy again.

The bell rang like a relief. An escape hatch. Though no one moved right away.

Heavy stood silently, slowly putting away his notebook. Scout got up behind him, eyes fixed on the floor. As the rest of the classroom began to move, as if waking from a tense dream, someone stepped in front of Heavy.

Kiki.

There she was, her uniform perfectly in place, her hair tied in a high ponytail that defied gravity, arms crossed with an expression both irritated and proud.

“I heard you beat up and almost killed our team captain,” she said bluntly. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement.

Heavy raised an eyebrow. “You were there with us,” he replied, incredulous.

But Kiki ignored him entirely. As if he hadn’t spoken.

“Try not to cause any more problems,” she muttered with disdain. “Unless you want more problems yourself.” And she walked away with the same elegant, calculated pace she’d arrived with.

Scout stepped up beside him, shaking his head. “God… I didn’t know you were that screwed.”

And as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to land a final blow, the loudspeaker crackled on again.

“Can the duo of talentless losers, Heavy and Scout, report to my office immediately?”

The classroom erupted in whispers and laughter. The voice of Principal Redmond Mann carried not a single ounce of tact. It was irritated, impatient… and very much determined to ruin their day.

Scout looked up in outrage. “What kind of announcement is that!?”

“Our principal’s got a point,” Mark sneered, passing by and dragging one of his crutches dramatically on the floor, as if he needed it to part a sea of the unworthy.

Heavy pressed his lips together.

Scout sighed.

And together, like soldiers marching to the firing squad, they started down the hallway.

The whispers followed them. So did the stares. Heavy, sticky stares—some full of pity, others amusement. But all of them marked one thing: they were now at the center of everything.

“You know what?” Scout muttered, looking up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there. “I wish you had killed him…”

Heavy just walked in silence, wishing with every step that his life was less like an absurd nightmare… and more like a movie. But not even movies treat losers kindly.

...

Both Heavy and Scout sat on cracked vinyl-upholstered chairs in front of the principal’s desk. The first day of school had barely begun, and they were already summoned to the most feared office in the entire high school. Outside, school life went on: distant murmurs of footsteps, doors opening and closing, scattered laughter echoing down the halls. Inside, however, the silence was thick, heavy like a brewing storm.

Heavy was sweating. Not the kind of sweat after gym class, but the kind that comes from waiting for a verdict in a trial you know you won’t survive. The dampness on the back of his neck stuck to his white uniform shirt, and his fingers drummed nervously against his legs. The Russian swallowed hard, feeling anxiety balloon inside his chest.

Scout, on the other hand, seemed like he was sitting in his living room. Legs spread wide, arms crossed behind his head, wearing that cynical smirk that always accompanied him. It was the kind of attitude that, in another life, might have earned him popularity... but in this one only led to suspensions.

“Good morning, Principal Mann. I want to say that today you look—” Heavy tried, his voice polite and desperately servile.

“Shut up and listen!” the old principal interrupted, his voice rough, dry as sandpaper. His knobby fingers slammed hard on the desk. “You know perfectly well why you’re here.”

“I don’t,” Scout said boldly, raising a hand with complete indifference.

The principal shot him a deadly glare.

“For committing a crime! An unacceptable act of violence against Mark, our team captain! An exemplary young man, a true American hero who will lead us to victory against BLU High!” Mann shouted, pounding his fists on the table theatrically. His face had turned red, and his glasses trembled on the bridge of his bony nose. Heavy flinched, shrinking in his seat, while Scout let out a dry, almost mocking laugh.

“The game against BLU is less than a month away. Do you have any idea what sacrifice, planning, and dreams are at stake?”

“Yes,” Scout and Heavy answered in unison.

“There are posters everywhere,” Scout said, thumb pointing at a worn poster on the wall showing Mark throwing a football while a cheerleader hugged him.

“Too many, I’d say,” Heavy added, looking up at another poster stuck to the ceiling that someone had placed with too much enthusiasm.

The principal squinted at them, seeming to weigh his words like an executioner sharpening his axe.

“I think I can explain…” Heavy began, trying to mediate.

“I’ll explain,” Scout interrupted energetically. “Mark’s a psycho, and he tried to hurt Kiki.”

Heavy slowly turned toward his friend, his face a mix of disbelief and alarm. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to tape his mouth shut and lock himself in a box for the rest of the school year.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the principal replied with dry sarcasm. “Now you’re the victims of the evil Mark. The same Mark who ended up in the hospital on crutches!”

“Exactly!” Scout shouted. “What? You believe everything he says? Just because he’s good-looking and athletic and throws a ball? Please!”

Heavy put his hands over his face.

“And that’s the solution, then?” the principal exclaimed, standing up. “Crippling our captain? You thought that was fair?”

“Maybe it’s because he’s always messing with us,” Scout muttered. “And this time we snapped, so we broke his legs. What did you expect? That we’d hug him?”

Heavy felt the pressure making his ears burn. “Can we talk about this calmly?” he tried to intervene again, almost pleading.

“Maybe I should buy a shotgun,” Scout exclaimed, “and defend myself from injustice.”

“NO!” Heavy yelled, horrified, turning to him with wide eyes. “No one is buying guns! Oh my god, Scout, don’t say things like that!”

But his friend just gave him a sideways glance, indifferent, while the principal sat back down, taking a moment to rub his face with both hands.

“Silence,” he finally said, with a colder, almost resigned tone. “You know what?”

“What?” Scout hissed with a sharp tone, like he was ready for a fight.

“I’m going to expel both of you.”

The sentence dropped like an axe on the neck of the conversation. Heavy jumped up from his chair, turning pale.

“NO! No, no, no,” he exclaimed, waving his hands in front of him. “Please, Principal Mann, you have to listen to me. This was all a misunderstanding. We… we were practicing.”

“Practicing?” the principal murmured skeptically.

“Yes, yes… for a… a club. A self-defense club,” Heavy improvised, his voice shaking, each word more desperate than the last. “Yes, that. A school club. Hitting each other was… part of the exercises. Simulations. Like an… educational program.”

Scout looked at him like he was crazy but then nodded.

“Exactly! A fighting club, like in those movies. Alternative PE. An extracurricular activity, you know…”

The principal frowned. He fell silent, studying them carefully. His eyes slightly narrowed, like a vulture waiting for the mouse to stumble.

“And you think you can cover yourself with that lie?” he asked slowly.

Heavy swallowed hard. “It would help us improve discipline. Physical endurance. And… and we wouldn’t get into fights with other students anymore. I promise.”

The old man sighed, bringing his hands to his temples.

“Will an adult supervise it?” he asked reluctantly.

Scout opened his mouth, but Heavy was faster. “We’re looking for a supervisor. Maybe Ted, the janitor.”

“God help us…” Mann muttered. “Whatever. Get out of my office. Before I change my mind and expel you for real. But listen carefully: one more problem, and there won’t be a second chance. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

And they left the office as if they’d escaped a minefield. Heavy was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like a bellows about to burst.

...

“I can’t believe they’re letting you start a fighting club,” Soldier exclaimed with a mix of admiration and bewilderment, crossing his arms as he sat down next to Heavy and Scout in the bleachers by the football field. The midday sun beat down relentlessly, reflecting off the grass and the sweaty faces of the young athletes running and shouting, getting ready for the next practice. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of nearby trees, and the murmur of student conversations created a lively, almost electric atmosphere.

Neither Heavy nor Scout were sure how Soldier, with his usual loud and somewhat abrasive presence, had ended up sitting with them. But neither said a word. Somehow, it was a relief to have one more presence — as crazy as it was — on that day filled with uncertainty.

Lunch hour had become a rare oasis of calm, but the tension still hung in the air like an invisible veil covering the school and everything around it. Scout looked at Heavy with that spark of youthful fire in his eyes, full of an almost desperate energy.

“No, it’s not like that. We’re not going to do it,” Heavy said firmly, taking a big bite of his sandwich, trying to fill a void that wasn’t just in his stomach. The bread squished between his teeth, but the anger and anxiety inside him tasted far more bitter than any flavor.

Scout, of course, jumped up, almost outraged. “What are you talking about? We’re going to do it. No matter what.”

Heavy sighed, feeling the exhaustion of a whole day filled with inquisitive stares and unspoken words. “Scout, I wasn’t serious,” he muttered, licking the mayo off his lips. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Oh, come on,” Scout replied, shaking his head as his eyes shone with that dangerous mix of rebellion and hope. “Did you see how everyone was looking at us? Like they expected us to do something… different. Besides, you heard the news. The school’s scared of BLU High. They need this club. There’s nothing cooler than proving your worth to the girls with violence, buddy. That’s what drives the world.”

Heavy frowned, looking with disdain at the crowd starting to fill the stands, the athletes chatting and shoving each other in crude jokes, the groups of girls fixing their hair and whispering nonstop. “No. What they need is more authority crackdowns and adult supervision. This isn’t a game, Scout. We’d be deceiving everyone, and that doesn’t feel right to me.”

Scout huffed, clearly frustrated. “The jocks and popular kids do that all the time and nobody says anything. But if we do it, we’re the monsters.” His voice dropped to an almost hiss. “Why us? Why do I have to be the weird one, the bad guy? I’m better than that hypocritical trash.”

Heavy looked at him with agreement but also with sadness and fatigue. “I think we’re better than those people too. But things don’t work that way here.” His gaze fell on a figure limping in the distance, still on his crutches: Mark, the captain of the football team, making his triumphant entrance. And just as everyone turned to look, he dropped the crutches to the ground like they were mere toys and stood tall.

The roar of cheers was immediate. The cheerleaders jumped and clapped with overflowing excitement. And Kiki — the captain, the center of every gaze — was there, her lips painted bright pink, bouncing like a little girl seeing her champion return on his feet.

Heavy felt his jaw tighten, a knot of resentment and frustration forming in his chest. This wasn’t fair. Not after everything that had happened.

“Besides, I remind you neither you nor I actually know how to fight,” he said with a voice heavy with doubt, looking at Scout. The shadow of insecurity was clear even in his usually deep tone.

Scout snorted. “Wait, didn’t you fight communists in a gulag?” Soldier asked, with that naive sincerity only he could maintain, not understanding the ironies and lies that usually surrounded their stories.

Scout looked at him incredulously, one eyebrow raised. Heavy let out a deep sigh, exhaling all the day’s fatigue.

“No, that was a lie. Obviously,” Scout declared impatiently, rubbing the back of his neck.

Soldier fell silent, stunned for a moment. “The gulag was a lie? Why did you lie to me?”

“You said it,” Scout replied with an ironic smile. “We just didn’t correct you.”

Soldier nodded slowly, still processing the information, a little downcast but at least understanding the situation. Heavy leaned back on the bleachers, exhausted, as if the very idea of pretending was just another weight to carry.

“Listen,” Scout said with renewed enthusiasm, tapping the seat with an open palm, “self-defense is just common sense. If someone wants to hit you, just try to stop them. The adrenaline kicks in, it’s easy.”

Soldier’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he suddenly exclaimed, “I want to join.”

Heavy looked up with a mix of surprise and disdain. “Look, we already have our first member,” Scout said with a triumphant smile. “This is taking shape.”

Soldier looked at them pleadingly, hope shining in his eyes. Heavy just sighed, tired of everything—school, problems, himself.

“Come on, Heavy,” Scout urged.

“Please, no,” muttered the Russian, almost like a prayer.

“Listen to me,” Scout insisted. “We teach a couple of guys to defend themselves from BLU’s killers, the girls love me, and maybe Herbert will notice you.”

Heavy felt his resistance melting, how the weight of the day and the pressure became unbearable. “Fine,” he finally gave in, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll do it. But if we fail, we risk becoming the biggest losers. Even below Soldier.”

Scout burst out laughing and jumped up. “That’s the beauty of being at the bottom, Heavy. The only way left is up. So, let’s get to work.”

Just then, the bell rang, echoing across the campus and signaling the end of lunch. The three boys stood up, blending into the tide of students returning to their classes.

...

“I think there’s a serious lack of a culture of solidarity and protection among students, so I believe this club could be something important to help us defend ourselves against BLU High School,” Scout said, leaning against the metal lockers in the hallway with a forced mix of drama and weariness, which barely held his weight or the weight of his speech. He spoke with the exaggerated tone and worn-out charisma of a fourth-rate comedian who had failed so many times he no longer feared looking ridiculous. His voice, heavy with fake and pitiful confidence, was directed at a group of three freshman girls who watched him as if they were witnessing a slow-motion car crash.

The three teenagers exchanged looks, sharing confusion, secondhand embarrassment, and a hint of fear, as if they suspected this might be some kind of cruel joke or the start of a school cult. One of them even took a step back, and after a long second of awkward silence, they hurried away, not even looking back. Not a word. Not a laugh. Just the echo of their fleeing footsteps down the hall.

From a few lockers down, Heavy watched the whole scene with a grimace of pain on his face, as if he had just seen someone trip over a cafeteria tray and fall face-first in front of the entire school. He clutched a couple of books against his chest and slammed his locker door shut, letting out an almost paternal sigh.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked in a low voice, heavy with disapproval. His deep, grave Russian accent made him sound like an old teacher tired of his students’ incompetence.

“Promotion,” Scout replied with a crooked smile, raising his eyebrows as if he’d just had a brilliant marketing idea. “I’m trying to let the pretty girls know we’re starting a club to protect them. Don’t you think that’s noble?” He puffed out his chest with totally misplaced pride.

Heavy stared at him for a moment in silence, as if trying to decide whether it was worth wasting his time explaining everything wrong with that sentence. Finally, he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“I don’t think that’s the best way to get this club known,” he murmured, walking toward the exit as the final school bell echoed through the empty halls.

The sun was beginning to tint the building’s windows with a golden light, a sign that classes were over and the first meeting of the self-defense club was about to take place in the school gym. Despite the excitement Scout had tried to inject into the project, the truth was that Heavy only held a slight hope. Maybe Soldier would have a more sensible idea of how to attract the right members. Although, knowing Soldier... his expectations weren’t exactly high either.

...

Twenty minutes after the final bell, when most students had already left the campus or headed straight to their sports clubs, Scout and Heavy arrived at the gym. Their footsteps echoed on the concrete outside as they approached the double doors, where an enthusiastic Soldier was waiting, waving energetically. He had a notebook tucked under his arm, his face flushed with excitement, and his eyes shining with the belief that he was about to change the fate of the world.

“Comrades! The members are waiting for us inside!” he exclaimed in his martial voice, so loud that the birds in a nearby tree took flight.

Scout shrank back, muttering something about public embarrassment, but Soldier was already opening the gym doors with the solemnity of someone opening the gates of a battlefield. And there they were.

Five boys.

Sitting in a circle on the wooden floor, each seemed lost in their own world. There was zero excitement. Zero team spirit. Engie was absorbed in his calculator, pressing buttons rapidly and jotting notes in a notebook, completely oblivious to what was happening around him. Demoman, meanwhile, had brought his trusty bottle of scrumpy, which somehow managed to sneak into every corner of the campus without anyone confiscating it. He took slow, deep sips, as if he had to endure the existence of everyone else.

Sitting a little apart was Spy — real name: Sebastian Leroy — thin, always dressed in a gray suit that looked borrowed from a French gangster movie. His posture was impeccable, legs crossed, holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. His gaze was sharp and his words even sharper. He could rip you apart with a single sentence and then smile at you with false courtesy, that French accent making him seem charming even when he told you you smelled like a tramp. It wasn’t surprising that many girls saw him as an irresistible mystery, although no one really knew anything about him except that he smoked like it was his religion and always knew more than he let on.

Next to him, with a wilder air, was Sniper — Mick Mundy — the new Australian kid. He always wore his dark glasses, even inside the gym. His face showed no emotion, as if nothing could surprise or interest him. He read an old book while slowly eating a granola bar. Sniper was a hermit within the school system, preferring rooftops, trees, and lonely spots. And if anyone had the bad idea to bother him, he didn’t hesitate to use his slingshot, with such precise aim that he could knock down cans from fifty meters away. And he had marbles for an entire army.

And then, there was Pyro.

Pyro didn’t speak. Nobody really knew why he was there or if he understood why he was there. He wore a thick fireproof suit with a gas mask that completely covered his face. His red sweatshirt was ragged and stained with what looked like soot. Pyro didn’t attend normal classes; he was enrolled in special support courses. Heavy didn’t understand how Soldier had convinced him to come. Maybe it was simple obedience. Or maybe Pyro didn’t understand it was a school club and thought it was a game. Either way, there he was. Sitting, swaying side to side, humming an unintelligible tune while holding a lighter between his fingers.

Scout looked at the group, his shoulders sinking as if carrying a backpack full of stones.

“What the hell is this? Soldier, how did you not bring any girls?” he complained, not even trying to hide his disappointment.

But Soldier just shrugged, as indifferent as enthusiastic.

Heavy crossed his arms, looking at the five club members like someone evaluating a rusty toolbox to fix a derailed train.

“You still want to do the club? We still have time to run,” he murmured quietly, resigned.

“Let’s see, I guess I could beat Spy in a fight, if he ever had an asthma attack from smoking so much...” muttered Scout, looking critically and evaluating the boys sitting in the gym circle. His brow was furrowed, as if scanning a group of professional opponents rather than a bunch of somewhat scruffy, distracted teenagers. The idea of facing Sebastian Leroy, the enigmatic Spy, seemed like a challenge Scout liked to imagine, but that would probably remain an impossible dream.

“Forget it, it’s more likely lung cancer will beat him than you in a fight,” replied Heavy, crossing his arms with the seriousness and weight of a tired general. He watched the group with a mix of bewilderment and frustration, not quite sure how to piece it all together. Then he turned his gaze toward Soldier, hoping for a solution.

“Soldier, any ideas...?” he asked, his voice a little lower, almost a resigned sigh.

Soldier, who until then had been carefully flipping through a notebook he held in his hands, looked up and opened his mouth to speak.

“I thought we could start with...” he began, while Heavy and Scout’s eyes fixed curiously on the notebook. But they found no detailed plans, no exercise lists, not even an organized outline. Instead, the notebook was full of patriotic doodles: flags, shields, and long speeches written in capital letters about defense and love for the homeland, sprinkled with phrases like “For the glory of the school!” and “United until victory!” Scout let out a deep sigh, heavy with impatience and annoyance.

Without wasting any more time, Scout stood up determinedly and walked toward the group of five boys, who were still sitting as if waiting for someone to start a yoga class.

“All right, you soft-ass losers!” shouted Scout in a firm, commanding voice, banging his backpack on the floor loudly to grab their attention. Everyone turned to him, and for a moment, his thin figure seemed to command respect. Scout nodded arrogantly, like a commander who knows his army is about to march. “Welcome to the fight club.”

“It’s a self-defense club… not a fight club,” muttered Heavy, approaching calmly and standing beside Scout, trying to correct the definition before everything got out of hand.

Soldier, for his part, quickly took a seat among the five boys, clutching his notebook to his chest, clearly fascinated and excited.

Scout resumed speaking with a military, almost theatrical attitude, raising his voice to fill the space and make sure everyone heard him clearly.

“As we know, BLU High School is lurking, and they’re messing with us. So we’re going to teach you how to hold your ground and defend yourselves.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. “We’ll start with flying kicks, mud boxing, a little bit of knives...” He paused dramatically, then added with a cruel smile, “Then bucket beating, which is when we dunk your head in a bucket and beat you until you bleed.”

The group reacted with expressions ranging from disbelief to confusion. Some exchanged skeptical looks, while others seemed to wonder if Scout was joking or had completely lost his mind. Soldier, on the other hand, looked completely amazed and captivated by Scout’s intensity and passion, as if watching the most epic training class ever.

Heavy watched them horrified, disturbed by the mix of gratuitous violence and lack of control. He stepped forward, raising a hand to interrupt the escalation.

“Before that, maybe we could do some stretching, a couple of talks, and trust exercises,” he calmly suggested, trying to bring some order and sense. He was trying to calm the unleashed violence Scout had let loose, seeking something more like a serious club and less like a gang of fighters.

Sniper calmly raised his hand with a mocking smile.

“Is that what you did in that Siberian gulag?” he asked, with a hint of sarcasm and curiosity.

Heavy let out a deep sigh, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose, as if trying to hold back an approaching storm. The lie was already getting out of control, and he feared he wouldn’t be able to contain it any longer.

"Yeah, exactly. Come on, Heavy. Tell them about the massacre you pulled off in that gulag," Scout urged, tapping Heavy's shoulder insistently with a mischievous, conspiratorial grin. Heavy shot him a disapproving look, silently blaming him for not stopping the lie they both knew was a total fabrication.

"No, I think..." Heavy muttered impatiently, about to put an end to the madness.

"Come on, big guy. I want to hear the story," Demoman insisted, and a few others cheered enthusiastically, encouraged by the promise of an epic tale.

Scout flashed a satisfied smile, while Heavy growled, resigned and without an escape.

"Alright." He began, his voice hoarse and deep, narrating the first thing that came to mind, unable to stop himself. "The snow was falling, screams echoed everywhere. My mother and sisters were hiding in a corner of the cell. Blood stained every corner. At my feet, two guards dead. The sirens were drilling into my ears. My arm was broken, and as best as I could, I grabbed a weapon, killing wave after wave of guards protecting the gulag."

The sentence came out dry and rough, with a hardness that didn’t quite match Heavy’s imposing figure.

He paused, noticing the mix of astonishment, fear, and admiration reflected on everyone’s faces. Spy’s eyes widened a little, Sniper slowly lowered his sunglasses and looked on with respect, Demoman raised his bottle in approval, and even Pyro stayed still, barely moving.

Heavy remained silent, feeling that the story had had the unexpected effect. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget that it was all a fabrication, a fable to earn the group’s respect. But in the end, he just lowered his gaze and muttered:

"That’s all."

“Well, since Heavy killed several men in a gulag this summer, maybe he can teach us how to land a solid hit,” announced Scout with that fake pride only he could pull off, as if he had just introduced the star instructor of a secret Soviet assassins’ academy.

The comment made Heavy visibly startle; his shoulders tensed, his expression shifted instantly, and the color seemed to drain from his face for a second. It wasn’t just the discomfort of being the center of attention — it was also the constant pressure to keep up a lie that was becoming more ridiculous and out of control. He cleared his throat, trying to sound calm.

“No... I don’t think that’s right. It’s still the first class,” he said in a tone somewhere between nervous and reasonable, though his anxious glance betrayed him. He wanted to defuse the situation before it completely fell apart, but Scout, stubborn as always, was already opening his mouth again.

Scout clicked his tongue, visibly annoyed. He spun around on his heels like he needed to shake off some frustration with a bit of movement, then faced Heavy with even more force.

“Come on, Heavy. We need a demonstration for this first meeting.” His tone grew increasingly insistent, bordering on absurd. The Russian gave him an uncomfortable smile, like someone who knows they’re about to star in a disaster in front of an audience. He felt the eyes of the five boys piercing through him, expecting something epic, something violent, something worthy of the reputation of a man who supposedly survived a gulag.

“We have to give them a little lesson,” Scout added, with an arrogant smirk that sent a shiver of irritation down Heavy’s spine.

“I told you no,” growled Heavy, this time with a more serious, sharper tone, and a hint of real anger in his eyes. He looked at Scout with growing irritation. He wanted to end the comedy before it turned into tragedy.

Scout just rolled his eyes, as if talking to a deaf old man. “First of all, who am I gonna hit?”

“Me,” Scout said as if the answer were as obvious as the sky above their heads.

Heavy looked at him like he’d just suggested jumping headfirst onto the concrete from the gym roof. Dumbfounded, he repeated, “You?”

Scout nodded confidently. He crossed his arms in front of the group, puffing out his chest like a willing martyr. All the boys watched him closely, curious but increasingly sensing that “this can’t end well.”

“I don’t think that’s right...” Heavy said, frowning, still hoping common sense would save him. But that had never worked with Scout.

“Oh, please. I know how to take a punch, everybody knows that,” Scout exclaimed confidently, making broad gestures with his hands. He spoke loudly, with a theatrical tone, as if narrating his own documentary.

Heavy knew that wasn’t true. Nobody said that about Scout. In fact, almost nobody talked about Scout. And when they did, it was to make fun of him. He wasn’t respected. He wasn’t admired. And certainly, nobody believed he knew how to take a punch. But Scout kept talking as if there were no tomorrow.

“Everyone looks at me and says, ‘Look at Scout… he definitely knows how to take a punch…’”

And then the punch came.

Without thinking too much, without fully wanting to, but driven by a mix of frustration and pressure, Heavy’s fist flew straight toward Scout’s face.

The impact was sharp, brutal, right in the center of his face.

One single sound, like a watermelon hitting concrete, echoed through the empty gym. The echo was long and dull. Scout fell backward like a plank, with a chilling crack as his back hit the floor. He made no noise when he fell, just a faint gasp that quickly faded.

The whole group froze, and unanimously, everyone quickly stood up, moving toward the lifeless body lying on the wooden floor.

Scout’s face was a mess: his nose was already turning a grotesque purple, and a river of blood flowed from his nostrils, staining his lip and the collar of his shirt. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell with difficulty, as if every breath cost him.

“Is he… dead?” Engie whispered, horrified.

“God…” muttered Demoman, setting his bottle aside and kneeling clumsily. Pyro, without making a sound, also knelt and touched Scout’s hair with an oddly unsettling tenderness.

Finally, Scout made a hoarse sound, a kind of broken cough mixed with sighs. He slowly sat up, trembling, breathing as if the air were made of splinters. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He held his nose with both hands while his reddened, watery eyes struggled to focus.

An awkward silence took over the gym. Everyone was expectant, partly relieved he was alive, partly impressed by the scene.

And in the midst of that heavy stillness, the only one who remained indifferent was Spy.

He stayed where he was, pulling a cigarette from his jacket with measured movements, as if the scene didn’t even warrant a raised eyebrow. He lit it with his classic golden lighter and took a deep drag. The bitter smoke spread slowly, like a curtain closing the act.

“Are we going to have an advisor for this club? Because clubs without advisors get suspended,” he said in a monotone voice, his tone dripping with indifference and refined annoyance.

Scout hissed in pain, still dazed, his voice hoarse as if he had swallowed gravel. He gritted his teeth as he spoke:

“What kind of teacher would be dumb enough to advise a club where we beat each other up?” he muttered, letting his head fall back, gasping.

Heavy ran both hands over his face, desperate. He spun on his heels and began pacing in circles, muttering something in Russian. The situation was slipping through his fingers like wet sand. Now he didn’t just have to hold back Scout, protect the club’s integrity, and maintain a stupid lie… he also had to find a stupid teacher willing to sign up for a cause that looked more and more like a ticking time bomb.

Another task for the damn list.

Chapter 3

Notes:

'Cause I can't help
Turning my love into pain
And I can't help
Turning my love into pain
---
"Pain" Song by King Princess

The bells rang with a dull chime that filled the hallways like an old, tired echo, dragging the students to their classes like a call to war. In the Communications classroom, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly, and the smell of dampness and nicotine seemed to have soaked into the walls since time immemorial. The desks were uncomfortable, the chalkboard was stained with marks that refused to be erased, and at the back, a half-open window let in the warm, sticky morning air.

Heavy sat in his usual spot at the back of the room, his backpack heavy, his shoulders hunched as if he carried more weight than he should. Beside him, Scout dropped into his seat with an exaggerated sigh, settling in with dramatic flair. A few band-aids crisscrossed the bridge of his nose, one larger than the others barely held together with tape. The wounds from the day before were still fresh: a light bruise on his cheek, slightly swollen lips, and that arrogant look of someone who thinks they’ve survived something important—though the truth was, he’d brought it upon himself with suicidal enthusiasm.

The teacher arrived on time. Helen. Just Helen. No one knew her last name, nor dared to ask. She was tall, bony, and moved with slow, calculated steps. Her skin had the color of old paper, and her black hair was beginning to surrender to gray, especially at the roots. Her eyes were sharp, gray without a glint, like wet stones. On her lips, as always, hung a cigarette she never truly smoked, just let it burn slowly while she spoke, the dense smoke collecting in the corners of the room like cobwebs.

“So,” she said in a raspy voice, not bothering to look at anyone directly, “you have to do a report on the invention of telephones. Try not to bother me.”

With that, she dropped heavily into her chair, pulled out an old magazine from her desk—possibly fashion or science fiction, it was hard to tell—and began to read as if she were a librarian on break. Class was officially in hibernation mode. No participation was expected, no questions, nothing that even resembled education.

Scout leaned slightly over, whispering without taking his eyes off Helen:
“Look at her. She’s perfect.”

Heavy, who had already opened his notebook and taken out a pen, let out an annoyed huff.
“No. We’re not doing this,” he muttered, more as an order to himself than to Scout.

“What do you mean, we’re not?” protested Scout, whipping his head around to glare at him, as if he’d just had his heart broken.

“I broke your nose,” Heavy pointed out, not even looking up, just extending the pen in the direction of his friend’s bruised face.

Scout clicked his tongue and shrugged.
“Yeah, and for the first time, a bunch of kids looked at me with admiration… not mockery or disgust.” He said this with an oddly genuine smile, like he really believed it. And maybe he did. Maybe in his mind, that punch had turned him into someone. Into some kind of bleeding legend.

Heavy rolled his eyes, letting the pen fall onto the notebook with a dull thud. Maybe, he thought with growing resignation, starting the self-defense club had been a mistake from the beginning. A spark lit in a school soaked in emotional gasoline.

Suddenly, a soft voice, like the rustling of dry leaves, whispered behind them.
“Hey, guys.”

Both Scout and Heavy jumped slightly, turning around. Sniper was there, standing like a specter from nowhere, his shadow stretched across the floor by the light from the window. He wore his usual cap, his dark sunglasses, and that distant expression that seemed etched onto his face since birth.

"Oh... hey. What's up?" said Heavy, still a bit stunned by how silently the Australian had approached. Scout just raised an eyebrow.

Sniper sat on the desk behind them with careful, measured movements. His voice, usually flat, now carried a subtle but real emotion.

"I wanted to thank you for yesterday. It was really cool. And even though I had doubts at first..." he looked down, adjusting his glasses, "I've been thinking... if I got ambushed by students from BLU High, and they had swords, knives, or guns, and you guys teach me how to fight like that, I wouldn't die."

There was a pause. It wasn't a joke. He didn’t say it with irony. He said it with that simple seriousness of someone who, for the first time, had imagined surviving.

Heavy felt something stir inside him. A mix of misdirected pride and genuine unease. It was the first time he’d heard Sniper speak more than two sentences in a row\... and lower his guard. Something about that strange sincerity moved him more than he was willing to admit.

A few desks away, Herbert looked up with mild curiosity at the conversation. He pretended to write, but all his attention was on them.

"That's awesome, Sniper," replied Scout, with a near-brotherly smile. "Unfortunately, Heavy doesn’t want to keep the club going."

Heavy turned his head, frowning.

"What? Why not?" asked Sniper, with genuine disappointment. His voice was quiet, but honest.

The Russian sighed deeply. He didn’t want to be the villain of this story. He didn’t want to carry the blame, but he already felt that uncomfortable splinter of responsibility digging into the back of his neck. Scout had outed him, subtly but effectively.

"Look, Sniper... I think this could get dangerous..." he tried to explain, more to himself than to anyone else. "We’re not real instructors, we have no training. It was just an idea..."

"But it was empowering!" Sniper interrupted, and Scout nodded firmly, like that one word summed up everything. Empowering. Like being part of that chaotic, almost cartoonish scene had, for the first time, made him feel part of something real. Something that mattered.

Heavy fell silent. He looked at Scout, then at Sniper, and finally down at his empty notebook. Suddenly, the idea of giving up so soon felt like betrayal.

Ms. Helen, from her desk, said nothing. She just lifted her eyes from the paper, looked over her cigarette, and without changing her expression of indifference, muttered:

"If you keep talking, I'm going to make you improvise a presentation in front of the class."

"What was empowering?" asked Herbert in a soft but clear voice, leaning slightly toward the group. The question dropped like a stone into the pond of conversation, stopping it completely. Everyone turned to look at him, but no one more completely disarmed than Heavy.

The jolt in the Russian was immediate, like an alarm had gone off in his brain. His body tensed, his spine straightened reflexively, and his face—already pink from the argument with Scout—flushed a deep, brutal, unrelenting red. It was the first time Herbert had spoken to him since that humiliating incident at the school fair: the botched conversation, the awkward sentences, the uncomfortable silences.

And now there he was again. Herbert. As German and elegant as ever. He looked like he had stepped right out of a brochure for some elite Swiss prep school: impeccable, with smooth and confident movements, wearing a perfectly ironed white shirt, a beige argyle vest no other teenager would dare wear, and black pleated trousers as straight as his posture. Even his neatly combed black hair looked like it had been placed strand by strand.

In those seconds of emotional paralysis, Heavy didn’t know what to say. He felt his throat close up, his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, and his thoughts dissolve into a sea of anxiety. Herbert’s blue eyes watched him with sincere curiosity, not judgment—just attention. But for Heavy, it was too much. It felt like the sun was staring straight at him.

"I... uh... well... hi, Herbert," he finally said, his voice slightly higher than normal. Each word was a little slip on thin ice. His face burned, and he had to swallow hard, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn’t humiliate himself again. Not in front of Herbert.

"We have a self-defense club. Our club. Scout and I started it," he added, gesturing awkwardly at his companion, as if he needed to justify his presence in the universe.

Scout, for his part, simply nodded and took a step back with a smug little grin. He seemed to be saying “all yours,” like he was handing Heavy the stage for his romantic monologue.

“Because of the attacks from BLU High, you know,” added Heavy, lowering his gaze to his notebook, unsure how to hold eye contact without imploding.

“Sounds interesting,” murmured Herbert, brushing his hand through his hair with a natural, fluid motion, effortless. Heavy nodded nervously, not sure if that was a good sign, but feeling deep down that the world had just stopped for a moment. Herbert thought his idea was interesting. His. The Russian’s heart pounded like he’d just run ten kilometers uphill. The butterflies in his stomach multiplied by the hundreds. The air felt thick, and he could’ve sworn steam was starting to come out of his ears.

And then, like a dagger in the back, Scout opened his mouth:

“Too bad Heavy’s thinking about canceling it.”

Scout’s shrill voice shattered the moment like a porcelain plate crashing to the floor. Heavy shut his eyes for a second, clenching his jaw in silence. Son of a bitch, he muttered to himself. Scout knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to manipulate him. To use his deepest weakness to force him to keep the club going. And the worst part was... it was working.

“Oh, wow.” Herbert tilted his head slightly, surprised but still smiling. “If you decide to continue the club, maybe I’ll stop by after school to check it out.”

Those words were like a punch to the soul. Officially, Heavy had no escape. It wasn’t about whether he wanted to keep the club going anymore. Under no circumstance could he quit now. Not after Herbert had shown the slightest bit of interest. Not after he had spoken to him kindly. Not now that he was looking in his direction with something that wasn’t pity or indifference.

Heavy felt the floor beneath his feet turn to jelly. The blush on his cheeks deepened — if that was even possible — and he genuinely thought he might evaporate on the spot, right there in that gray classroom, under the gaze of an angel in a beige vest.

Herbert nodded once more, and Heavy felt his chest tighten with an unbearable kind of tenderness. That simple expression, that brief gesture… it was destroying him slowly, gently. Like a song so sad you can’t stop listening to it.

And then, the bell rang. The end of class came like a premature mercy. Students began getting up from their seats, grabbing their backpacks, stretching their legs, and murmuring among themselves.

But the scene didn’t end there.

“Herbie, darling. Let’s go already,” said a sharp voice, syrupy sweet, laced with artificial charm. It was Kiki, Herbert’s ever-present companion. She wore her uniform perfectly fitted, red bows in her hair, and a smile that looked straight out of a high school rom-com… until you noticed the edge beneath it.

Herbert nodded politely, without any fuss, and with a graceful flick of his wrist, waved goodbye to Heavy.

And that’s when Kiki delivered the final blow.

She walked over to Herbert with calculated steps and, with a gesture as natural as it was possessive, slipped his arm around her waist. And just as Herbert turned his back to Heavy, Kiki turned over her shoulder.

She shot him a sharp glance, full of venom.

No words were needed. Her eyes said it all.

Stay away.

The warning was clear, silent, and brutal.

Heavy stood still, frozen, watching them walk away. He felt the weight of that gaze pierce him like a dart between his ribs. Euphoria mixed with anguish, desire with guilt, possibility with resignation.

Scout came up beside him, wearing a mocking smile.
“So... are we still going with the club?”

Heavy lowered his gaze. He swallowed hard.

“...Yeah,” he murmured.
Because of course he would keep going. Even if it tore him apart inside. Even if it was a stupid idea.

Because Herbert had said maybe it would happen.

And that maybe... was enough.

The other students began to leave the classroom in messy waves, amid laughter, groans, and dragging heavy backpacks. Some talked about how useless the class had been, others simply mocked the band-aids Scout wore over his nose. In less than a minute, the classroom emptied like a spilled bottle, leaving only the echo of footsteps fading down the hall and the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke filling every corner.

Teacher Helen didn’t move. She remained absorbed in her magazine, her glasses slipping halfway down her nose, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette hanging dangerously from the corner of her lips. The smoke rose in slow spirals, dancing in the dusty light coming through the window, as if time itself had stopped just for her.

“Just look at her,” Scout whispered, with a mischievous smile as he ran a hand through his messy hair. He stepped forward, puffing out his chest like a 1950s encyclopedia salesman. “Teacher Helen, dear teacher,” he began with a theatrical bow. “Great class today, really worth coming to. A true academic treasure.”

“It’s your duty to come to class,” Helen replied without looking up from her magazine, her tone as dry as sandpaper. Her voice had the tired cadence of someone who had heard every possible trick and was immune to them.

Scout pretended not to hear the sarcasm. He kept smiling brightly.

“Well, Teacher Helen, you see... my friend and I are organizing a self-defense club. And it would be a great honor, a true privilege for us, if you could advise us.” He spoke as if he were selling used cars, convinced they were worth more than their price. Beside him, Heavy nodded awkwardly, feeling the teacher’s attention finally shift from the magazine pages to their faces.

Helen squinted and raised her eyes slowly, as if every movement weighed more than it should.

“A self-defense club?” she repeated skeptically, one eyebrow raised as if they had just told her they planned to raise alpacas on the school roof. “Why don’t you ask one of the coaches? They’re for that.”

Heavy swallowed, feeling an uncomfortable tingling at the back of his neck. Still, he stepped forward.

“Because this... is something more. It’s more than just fighting. It’s about unity, teacher,” he said, surprising himself with the firmness of his voice. “Trust talks, how to stay calm, how not to fall for provocations, how to look out for each other...”

The teacher squinted, and the cigarette shortened with a fresh drag.

Scout pulled a folded sheet of paper from his backpack and laid it on the desk, smoothing it out with quick movements.

“We’ve got everything ready,” he announced. “We just need your signature here. You don’t even have to come to the club. We’ll take care of everything. You have my word.” He pointed to the last line, where his name and Heavy’s were already signed, along with a somewhat vague description of the club’s purpose and schedule—clearly inflated to sound official.

Helen slowly lowered her gaze to the document. The cigarette pulsed at her lips. She held it between two fingers stained with ink and ash, staring at the form as if she were being asked to sign a death warrant.

“I don’t know\... sounds like a lot of work,” she muttered, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Having to watch over you, controlling your activities and schedules... I don’t want to spend more time with teenagers outside of my teaching hours. I already have enough with you during class.”

“And you wouldn’t have to!” Scout exclaimed quickly, before she lost interest. “You don’t have to lift a finger. We just need a name on that paper. To comply with regulations. Seriously, you can keep reading magazines while the club dissolves into bonding activities and motivational talks.”

He said that last part with a charming smile and a slightly lower voice, almost like a shared secret.

Helen let out a long, resigned sigh, and her eyes returned to the sheet. The idea of not having to do anything at all seemed to echo in her mind. She even smiled slightly—or maybe it was just a grimace.

"Anyway... advising a club would look good on my résumé," she finally murmured, as if trying to convince herself more than them. She grabbed a black pen, one that looked more worn out than functional, and slid it across the dotted line with a quick, precise stroke. Helen's signature—curiously elegant and angular—sealed the club's fate.

"Wait, you're actually accepting?" Heavy asked, incredulous. It was so unexpected that for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming. Something was going right. No accidents, no disasters, no public ridicule or mocking. It was... strange.

Scout gave him a quick elbow to the ribs, a clear signal to shut up and not ruin the moment.

Helen dropped the pen as if she had just finished open-heart surgery, pushing the paper aside and returning to her magazine with the same impenetrable indifference as always.

"Thank you, Teacher Helen. You really don’t have to come. We’ll handle it," Scout declared with renewed enthusiasm, taking the paper as if it were a million-dollar contract.

Heavy followed with a slow nod, still in disbelief. He held the sheet like a sacred artifact, unable to believe that that signature—that half-hearted scrawl—was all they needed for the club to officially exist.

As they left the classroom, Scout was grinning from ear to ear, waving the document in Heavy’s face like a trophy.

"See? We did it. We’re an official club!"

Heavy, for his part, just looked at the paper, then down the hallway lit by the windows.

...

Classes had finally ended, and the afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the school gym, bathing the wooden floor in a golden, warm glow. The echo of footsteps rang out like war drums, anticipating the start of the second session of the newly formed—and chaotically improvised—Self-Defense Club.

Heavy and Scout pushed open the double doors of the gym, this time with a mix of resignation and a faint hope that maybe something would go right. But the scene that greeted them was a choreography of disorder and absurdity: Soldier, with his usual overflowing energy, had transformed the gym into something between a traveling circus and a playroom for hyperactive kids. He had brought—or perhaps stolen, the line was blurry when it came to Soldier—all kinds of sports equipment.

A couple of padded mats were spread out in the center of the gym, though clearly placed incorrectly, with corners awkwardly bent. Near them lay a pair of rusted dumbbells, some mismatched boxing gloves, and most bizarre of all: several multicolored hula hoops hanging like abandoned crowns from some forgotten pagan ritual.

Demoman was trying to lift one of the dumbbells with one hand while holding a flask in the other. Engie had taken apart one of the hula hoops and was examining it as if he could turn it into a new invention. Spy was lying on the mats, smoking, as if he were at a spa session. Sniper had climbed up to one of the basketball hoops and was calmly reading a book while chewing on something. Pyro, as expected, was enthusiastically spinning inside several hula hoops, laughing through his mask with muffled sounds.

Scout frowned in annoyance at the scene.

“How many girls go to this school?” he complained, letting out an exasperated sigh while nodding his head toward the same group of boys as always. “Second class... and still not a single girl. This is turning into a traumatized boy scout club!”

“Hello, guys,” Soldier greeted with completely misplaced energy, waving his hand like a tour guide welcoming a group of visitors at Disneyland. “Today is a good day to strengthen patriotic spirit through physical suffering!”

Scout rolled his eyes.
“Whatever, we have to get started,” he muttered, approaching the center of the gym with determined steps. He grabbed the old mop from the corner—the same one used to clean up vomit in gym class—and began hitting the floor hard, like a general waking his troops with the butt of a rifle.

“Listen up, you weak losers!” he shouted with all the air in his lungs. “The damned club class has started, and if you see it’s time for class, don’t be fooling around like this is kindergarten recess! So I expect total discipline from your kick—!”

The gym door slammed open with a screech that cut off his speech.

And then, everything changed.

A small shadow crossed the threshold, interrupting the moment with a softness that seemed in total contrast to the chaos inside. It was a girl. Petite, with silent but determined movements, her black hair tied back in a low ponytail. She wore a sober but peculiar purple outfit—as if an office worker had accidentally wandered into a high school—and thick glasses framing her large, bright eyes. She held a clipboard against her chest with both hands, smiling shyly but with a confidence that didn’t seem easily shaken.

“Hello, everyone,” she greeted in a soft, polite voice, not intimidated by the strange spectacle of hyperactive teenagers around her.

Heavy blinked, astonished. Scout simply froze. It was as if the world had stopped for him.

There was a girl.
A real girl.
And not only that... one who had just voluntarily entered the gym!

Scout dropped the mop with a clatter and straightened up. As if an automatic routine had been triggered, his tough-guy persona vanished, replaced by his most charming version—or what he considered charming.

“Hey, you. Are you here to join this self-defense club?” he asked with a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow, striking a pose he thought was irresistible.

The girl ignored him with the efficiency of a librarian dealing with spoiled kids. Without paying him much attention, she raised her clipboard.

“No, well... actually, I’m here to advise the club, on behalf of Teacher Helen,” she explained calmly, with a smile that, though kind, left no room for argument. “My name is Flo Pauling. But you can call me Miss Pauling.”

The words made Heavy’s stomach tighten.

“What do you mean advising the club?” he asked, stepping closer slowly. “You… you’re just another student.”

The whole plan—the beautiful, delicate plan to have a club without supervision, where they could improvise as they pleased and avoid punishments while pretending to teach self-defense—crumbled like a house of cards in the rain.

Miss Pauling looked at him without losing her composure.

“Yes, I am Teacher Helen’s assistant. And since she doesn’t want to deal with teenagers outside of school hours, she asked me to supervise the club for her.” She extended a sheet toward Heavy, who took it with trembling hands. It was written in elegant, almost baroque handwriting, filled with long sentences and unnecessary words. The summary was simple: Helen won’t come. Flo Pauling represents her. End of story.

Heavy let out a long, almost dramatic sigh.

Of course. Obviously. What did he expect? Nothing in his life was easy. Not even the pathetic attempt to start a self-defense club to avoid getting expelled and channel his existential trauma through physical exercise.

Scout, for his part, seemed not to grasp the seriousness of the situation. He was absorbed in trying to catch Miss Pauling’s attention. He ran his fingers through his hair and muttered scattered phrases like “we need people with your grit,” “you’re brilliant, I’m sure you can give us advice,” and “I can show you the hula hoops later…”

Miss Pauling smiled, unfazed, as she began taking notes on her clipboard.

The Self-Defense Club was now officially a supervised club.
And Miss Pauling, as kind as she seemed, did not look like someone easy to fool.

Heavy sighed again, crossing his arms.

This could only get more complicated.

Then, as if the universe were determined to test Heavy’s emotional endurance, the gym doors opened again with a long, metallic creak. The hallway light spilled in like a makeshift spotlight, and the figure outlined in the doorway was none other than Herbert.

Herbert.

Herbert, with his impeccable posture and that slow walk that seemed taken straight out of a luxury product commercial.

Heavy froze. Literally. His body went rigid, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water down his back. Every sound in the gym seemed muffled. He couldn’t even hear the clinking of the hula hoops or Demoman’s laughter, nor Soldier’s off-key military chant. Only that insistent, frantic pulse pounding hard in his throat.

He really came.
The German had really come to the club.

“Good afternoon,” Herbert greeted with his always calm, almost musical voice, as if things like hurry or anxiety didn’t exist. He carefully placed his backpack on one of the seats in the bleachers and then approached the group, surveying the messy gym as if entering a modern art gallery. He observed the mats, the boxing gloves, the weights… and paused for a long moment in front of a multicolored hula hoop.

Heavy closed his eyes for a second. It’s 1970, he thought. And all I want is for the world to end right now.

“Good afternoon to you too. Are you coming to join the club?” Miss Pauling asked, approaching Herbert with her clipboard in hand. Her voice was friendly, though her gaze remained the same as someone carefully cataloging an important file list.

“Oh, something like that,” Herbert replied with a small laugh, that kind of laugh that doesn’t sound awkward or forced, but elegant, polite, beautiful, Heavy thought without wanting to admit it. “Is there still room for one more?”

Miss Pauling tilted her head, bringing the tip of her pen to her lips with a thoughtful air. She stayed silent for a few seconds, reading her clipboard.

“Apparently,” she said at last, “this is only the second class and I still don’t have an official list of members. So you were lucky to join today. I’m just putting the lists together.” And without waiting for an answer, she began writing quickly, filling lines with that precise and fast handwriting.

Herbert nodded, leaning slightly to sign where Miss Pauling indicated. He did so firmly, with his stylized, perfectly legible handwriting. Then he straightened up, and when he looked up, his sky-blue eyes met Heavy’s directly.

“Hello, Heavy. So this is your self-defense club?” he asked with a wide, genuine white smile that made Heavy’s stomach tighten. “I have to admit it’s more peculiar than I had imagined.”

Heavy nodded, unable to string together a coherent reply. His thoughts were a battlefield: Peculiar in what sense? A good peculiarity? Strange? Ridiculous? Fun? Sarcasm in disguise? Admiration? Condescension?!

But before he could say anything—anything at all—Herbert had already turned with his usual elegance and was heading toward the other club members. Engie, who was dismantling a weight as if it were a construction toy, greeted him with a smile, and soon both were engrossed in a lively conversation about alloys, ergonomic design, and some kind of weight structures. The way Herbert nodded, interested, and how Engie genuinely seemed happy to have someone to talk to about those things... damn it, Heavy thought. He even does that well.

And there he stood. Alone. Watching Herbert blend in effortlessly, without any effort, while he still felt like a poorly built tower about to collapse.

As if that weren’t enough, Scout wasn’t helping either.

The kid had detected his new life mission in Miss Pauling: impress her, win her over, dazzle her, or at least make her laugh. He followed her like a lap dog, throwing out rapid comments, exaggerating gestures, and even (God help him) trying to show her how to use a hula hoop without falling on the first spin. Miss Pauling ignored him with surgical precision, as if she had a mental shield that repelled Scout’s chaotic energy. She kept doing her job, focused on asking names, taking attendance, and making an orderly list.

Heavy ran a hand over his face. He took a deep breath. He looked again at Herbert, who was now laughing at something Demoman had just said. Then he looked back at the chaos around him: Pyro was spinning between two mats like a human top, Soldier was shouting things about “the importance of pain to temper the soul,” and Sniper, from the top of a structure, was shooting marbles with incredible accuracy at the gym cones, knocking them down one by one.

This was his club.
His damn self-defense club.

And now Herbert was inside it.

Herbert, the only person for whom Heavy felt things he couldn’t name, the only one who disarmed him with a smile, the only one who—for some reason beyond his understanding—had decided to come to this chaos. To his chaos.

Anxiety grew like a poisonous plant in his stomach. Now, more than ever, he couldn’t afford to fail. He couldn’t allow this to end in disaster... even though everything seemed to point that way.

Heavy closed his eyes for a moment.

I’m already here, he thought. There’s no turning back. And just when it seemed things might get better, chaos seemed to welcome them with open arms, ready to devour them all.

In a movement as quick as it was unexpected, just as Scout was passing by Heavy, following closely behind Miss Pauling with that impatient, nervous walk that defined him, the Russian stopped him. His huge hand, strong as a hydraulic press, gripped Scout’s arm firmly. Scout couldn’t move forward. The grip was strong enough to make him stop dead in his tracks, his sneakers squeaking softly on the gym floor.

“What?” he asked irritably, barely turning his face, eyebrows furrowed and lips tight in a grimace that barely hid his annoyance. But Heavy didn’t need to say a word. The look he gave Scout—a mix of severity and warning, as heavy as a sledgehammer—said everything that needed to be said. Scout huffed, rolling his eyes as if the whole scene was a waste of time he couldn’t afford.

He sighed deeply, defeated, and made his way to the center of the gym with a noisy, theatrical gait. Upon arriving, he gave two loud claps, whose echoes rang clearly in the stale air thick with sweat, dust, and disinterest. Some stopped whispering. Others, like Pyro, simply turned their heads with that scattered attention so characteristic of him. Finally, all eyes were on him.

“All right,” Scout announced, raising his voice with a forced enthusiasm that barely concealed his irritation. “It’s time to start the club.”

Miss Pauling, clipboard in hand and brow furrowed, sat down on one of the metal bleachers. The metallic echo of her seat accompanied her silence. She crossed her legs, watching the scene with a mix of skepticism and contained expectation. Though she said nothing, her gaze was sharp, calculating, like a scale about to decide whether all of this was worth it… or if it should be canceled immediately.

“Do you all know why you’re here?” Scout asked firmly, scanning the group with his eyes. No one spoke, but most nodded—some with conviction, others with their heads half lowered, dragged there more by peer pressure than anything else.

“To defend ourselves from BLU High School!” Soldier shouted, puffing out his chest with that almost ridiculous patriotic fervor that possessed him whenever he spoke. His words, however, found an echo. Some nodded more enthusiastically, even Herbert seemed to give his silent approval with a slow nod.

“Exactly. Yes,” Scout said, affirming with energy. “Any volunteers to start?”

There was no answer for a second. Only the distant hum of the fluorescent lights and the creak of the bleachers as someone shifted. Finally, Engie raised his hand with resignation and a brief sigh. He stood up and walked slowly until he stood in front of Scout, adjusting his glasses in a mechanical gesture.

“Come on, stand in front of me,” Scout instructed, and the Texan obeyed without protest, standing with his arms at his sides, waiting for some kind of formal instruction.

But instead, Scout suddenly shoved him, with the force and speed of a light train, without any warning. Engie fell backward onto the floor with a sharp thud, which echoed with a dull, alarming sound. The air left his lungs in a single gasp.

“Hey, that doesn’t look safe…” Miss Pauling murmured from her seat, her voice filled with growing concern.

“What the hell?! You didn’t even warn me,” Engie growled, struggling to get up, one hand on his back while his face flushed with both anger and pain.

“In real life, BLU High School won’t warn you,” Scout replied without a trace of patience, as if the whole world had to understand his logic on the first hit—literally.

Heavy didn’t take his eyes off the scene. His brow was a deep line, his lips pressed tight as if he could control the situation with the weight of his worry alone. He looked at Miss Pauling. She said nothing, but her body language was a contained scream: tense back, crossed arms, a leg shaking in a nervous tic. Everything indicated she was one step away from standing up and ending this “club” before it ended in a hospital visit.

“Maybe we should go slower,” Heavy suggested in a low voice, addressing Scout firmly, like someone holding back a dog ready to bite.

But Scout just snorted, irritated. “Look, Engie. Use your natural instincts and fight back.”

Engie let out a bitter laugh. “My ‘instincts,’ huh?”

Still, he prepared himself. He stepped forward and pushed Scout with a clumsy movement, but charged with the strength of someone who’s had enough. Scout also fell backward but got up with the agility of a cat. This time, it was Scout who returned the shove with twice the force, throwing Engie to the ground with a harder hit than before.

“Damn, my back!” hissed the Texan, curled up on the floor, his face twisted in a grimace of real pain.

“We need to stop immediately, this is getting dangerous,” Miss Pauling said, finally standing up. Her voice left no room for argument, and her gaze went straight to Heavy, demanding immediate intervention.

Herbert, with his usual blank expression, and Pyro, moving with chaotic energy, hurried to help Engie to his feet. The Texan groaned, holding his side. Scout, for the first time, seemed to hesitate. He looked around and noticed the atmosphere had changed: it was no longer a training exercise; it was chaos on the brink of collapse.

Heavy stepped forward. He felt the tension piling up in his throat, like every second was a thread about to snap.

“All right,” he said, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture, his deep voice calm but firm as a warning. “We don’t have to stop the situation…”

But Miss Pauling didn’t seem convinced. Her brow was still furrowed. Everything about her screamed risk, failure, danger. It was clear: the slightest mistake from this moment on and the club would be dismantled with no chance of appeal.

The entire gym held its breath, as if the echo of the last blow still floated in the air. Scout, Heavy, Miss Pauling… they all knew the clock was ticking, and if they wanted this to work, they’d have to find another way.

“Wait, Miss Pauling! Don’t do anything yet,” Heavy exclaimed, his voice thick with anxiety as he took a couple of hurried steps toward the girl. His imposing size contrasted almost comically with the small, tidy figure of the teenager, who was already heading toward the gym exit. The expression on her face was that of someone who’d had enough. She had seen too much.

Miss Pauling stopped, slowly turning around. She looked at him with a mix of skepticism and concern. Her eyes clearly showed she was evaluating—calculating—whether it made sense to stay or if it was better to close that door and end the disaster before it escalated further.

“This doesn’t look safe at all,” she murmured, her voice low but firm, like a well-sharpened knife. “Maybe the best idea is to put the club on hold and bring in trained instructors. People with experience. Real teachers.” Her tone was final, and her steps were once again moving toward the metal gym door leading to the office hallway.

But Heavy didn’t give up.

“Look, Miss Pauling,” he said, his deep voice barely trembling under the weight of urgency, “I know all this looks messy right now. Disorganized. Even dangerous. And you’re right.”

The girl stopped again, this time looking at him carefully. The tension in the air was like a taut rope, ready to snap at the slightest mistake. The silence in the gym was almost absolute. The other guys, who seconds before had been joking, complaining, or helping Engie stand up, were now quiet, expectant. Each of them understood, without anyone saying it, that something important was happening right then. That maybe, if Heavy failed, all the space they were starting to build would disappear.

Heavy swallowed hard. He felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck, cold as an ice cube, chilling his spine.

“But here… here we’re creating something more than just a club,” he continued with a trembling but determined voice. “We’re building unity among the guys. And, above all… strength. Real strength. Emotional strength. And physical too, yes. But it’s not about who can throw the hardest punch or who lands on their feet. It’s about… knowing we’re not alone.”

Miss Pauling barely furrowed her brow but didn’t interrupt. She just watched him, as if seeing him with new eyes. Beyond the sweaty uniform and rough gaze, maybe there was something more.

“The only way to have this connection,” Heavy went on, desperately searching for the right words, “is… is learning to defend ourselves. And the only way we’ll achieve it is… by teaching each other. Among us. With mistakes. With shoves. But together.”

His voice echoed through the wide gym space, where only the buzzing of the fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling could be heard. Even Pyro had stopped moving, holding a water bottle quietly.

Miss Pauling came to a complete stop. She looked at the door. Then at the group of boys gathered—disorganized, bruised, but all looking at Heavy with a mix of respect and hope. Finally, she looked back at the Russian. She took a couple of steps backward, moving away from the exit.

“The BLU high school is coming… and it’s scary. I know. We all feel it,” Heavy said, each word harder to say than the last. The tension rose like a tide, filling every corner of the gym. “We need this. We need to be united in times like these.”

He hesitated.

“I know everything might seem frightening, and that’s okay… because… because…”

The words started slipping out of his mouth. His mind went blank. Sweat ran down his forehead again, and for a moment he felt everything slipping out of his hands. Don’t ruin it now, he told himself, not now.

Then, as if he knew, Scout stepped forward.

“Because we will teach them how to defend themselves,” the boy exclaimed, his voice clear and strong, rescuing Heavy like a lifeboat in the middle of an emotional shipwreck.

Heavy looked at him, grateful, and nodded firmly at his words.

Scout moved to the center of the group, suddenly commanding, his voice filled with an inspiration none present would have believed possible just days before.

“To defend themselves not just from BLU high school,” he said passionately, “we’ll teach them to defend themselves from anything that makes them feel weak!”

Scout’s tone rose, burning like a living flame. His eyes were glowing—not with anger, but with something much more powerful: conviction.

“They will defend themselves from those judging looks, from those comments that drag them down, from that constant feeling that whispers they don’t belong anywhere. Damn it! They will defend themselves from anyone who tries to make them feel like losers. Because they’re not.”

The words hit the air hard. In some boys’ eyes, hidden tears began to appear. Others clenched their fists, as if something inside them had suddenly been ignited. Herbert was completely serious, nodding. Pyro raised his arms excitedly, saying nothing coherent, but caught by the energy. Even Soldier seemed more solemn than usual, lips pressed in a line of martial approval.

“And if you give us the chance to teach you,” Scout continued, raising his arms, “if you can believe and trust us… I say we’re going to do it!”

A roar of excitement burst out among the boys.

Shouts, applause, slapping thighs, jumps of joy. The energy felt in that moment was so powerful it seemed to lift dust off the floor. It was real. Organic. Transformative.

Miss Pauling, still standing on the bleachers, stayed for a few more seconds. Her face, which until then had been full of doubt and constant evaluation, softened. Her lips curved slightly, and finally, she sat down again. She clapped, not as loudly as the others, but with an expression of silent pride and hope.

She looked at Scout, then at Heavy. This time, her eyes shone with something different: unexpected faith.

The self-defense club hadn’t just started. It had been born with fire.

...

Heavy knew it from the start. He felt it deep in his chest, where certainty mixed with fear: creating the self-defense club was a bad idea. At its core, it was a foolish excuse. A desperate move that he and Scout had improvised at the last minute so that Principal Redmond Mann wouldn’t expel them for the unfortunate incident. The club was nothing more than a smokescreen, a plan built on lies and fear, disguised as school spirit.

And yet…

Despite the fragility of the original purpose, something else was beginning to sprout within those gray, damp walls of the gym. Something that grew like a silent spark, like an ember that neither the weight of guilt nor doubt could fully extinguish.

He couldn’t help it: Heavy felt a strange, inexplicable emotion as he watched the boys gathered in the center of the court. They formed an uneven circle, some sitting on the floor, others standing, arms crossed or hands in pockets. Two teenagers were in the middle, measuring distance with slow steps, like young predators—still clumsy, still learning to hunt.

Miss Pauling stood in one corner, holding a small silver whistle hanging from a cord around her neck. Her face, though impassive, reflected a contained tension—the vigilance of someone who refuses to look away but also isn’t sure if what she’s seeing should really be happening. She was, officially, the club’s referee. But everyone knew there were no real written rules. Just a fragile, improvised structure that depended on the unstable balance between adolescent egos and the need to belong to something—anything.

The first hits, as always, were clumsy. Hesitant.

They always are in real fights. The fear of hurting or being hurt. The uncertainty of where to place your hands, the doubt about whether it’s right to raise a fist against another. It’s the insecure shoves that start the dance: open palms barely touching, poorly aimed knee strikes, meaningless shouts, weak kicks that barely shake balance. The gym filled with the sound of these youthful skirmishes. It was a wild, disordered choreography, danced with heavy feet and nerves on edge.

But something changed each day.

The movements grew faster, more accurate. The initial clumsiness was smoothed by experience, by every poorly landed blow, by every fall. Dodges started to happen more instinctively. Legs became more agile, fists more precise. Sweat mixed with excitement—and with blood. Broken noses, split lips, bruises appearing as purple stains under the skin. The pain, far from being a reason to quit, became a symbol of pride. Muffled groans, subtle cracks of a rib badly hit by a kick—these became part of the club’s music. A new language. A code.

No adults. No teachers. No tutors. No one setting real limits.

Just them.

Angry, overwhelmed teenagers seeking redemption, affection, or meaning amidst a series of poorly executed holds, instinctive moves, sweat, and raw strength. They lunged at each other with glorious clumsiness, as if with every confrontation they could exorcise something. The pain wasn’t only physical. It was a shared, common language that finally made them feel part of something. Even if it was through fists.

Heavy didn’t complain.

How could he? When every day he had Herbert.

That German boy. Delicate, elegant, always upright, with manners bordering on theatrical, as if every gesture were part of a play. But here, in the center of the circle, sweat shining on his forehead, shirt half-open and stuck to his torso from the humidity, Herbert was something else. A wild creature. A well-mannered beast learning to roar, getting his hands dirty, bleeding.

And that… that fascinated him.

Once, in the middle of a fight that had lasted longer than expected, Herbert found himself sitting on Heavy’s chest, immobilizing him with his legs. Sweat dripped down his face, and a small red stain appeared at the corner of his lips, where one of Heavy’s poorly aimed punches had landed.

“Why are you smiling? I’m supposed to be kicking your ass,” the German spat out, panting, his face just inches from Heavy’s.

Heavy didn’t answer. He only looked away, pretending that his blush and heavy breathing were from physical effort and not from Herbert’s closeness, his body pressed against his, from that shared sweat that made him feel as if they were fused. United. Allowed.

It was pathetic. He knew it.

But he couldn’t help it.

The self-defense club had become, unintentionally, the perfect excuse. He could touch Herbert, take him down and let himself be taken down, crawl on the floor with him, exchange gasps, grab him by the waist, the thighs, the arms, without anyone questioning a thing. Without anyone knowing what he really felt. Although he rarely allowed himself to hit him with real force, his hands traced the softness of that velvet skin disguised as violence. Every time their bodies collided, every time their breaths mingled, it was as if an electric current shook his soul.

Herbert’s sweat and his mixed like a forbidden elixir, and that feeling was enough to give him energy. To fight harder. To destroy the next opponent with a fury that seemed otherworldly.

The blows continued. The gym was a boiling pot of testosterone, frustration, and desire disguised as aggression.

Scout, as always, seemed obsessed with impressing Miss Pauling. He threw himself into combat with overflowing energy, like a dog trying to impress its owner. Every yell, every dramatic fall, every well-executed push sought the girl’s gaze in the stands. And sometimes he got it.

The atmosphere was brutal but alive.

The violence had a purpose. The pain, a direction. It wasn’t just destruction: it was construction. What was forming there was a community, yes, but also something darker. More intense. A brotherhood forged in bruised bones and scraped knees, on the edge of physical and emotional endurance.

The self-defense club was taking shape.

A bloody shape. Painful. But good.

A family of blows and sweat, a broken promise that, nevertheless, seemed to be giving something more real than anyone had imagined. And Heavy, despite having thought it was a bad idea, was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe… it had been worth it.

Chapter 4

Summary:

I wish I wasn't such a narcissist
I wish I didn't really kiss the mirror when I'm on my own
Oh God, I'm gonna die alone!
Adolescence didn't make sense
A little loss of innocence
The ugly years of being a fool
Ain't youth meant to be beautiful?
---
"Teen Idle" Song By MARINA

The days passed, and the self-defense club became an unstoppable creature. Like a beast born from chaos, need, and shared pain, it grew with every punch thrown, with every loud fall against the gym floor. What had started as a clumsy mass of teenagers looking for meaning through poorly aimed kicks and shoves now resembled—at a distance—something almost ritualistic, a choreography of violence that, despite everything, had shape. It had soul.

The fights were no longer slow or erratic. The movements were becoming faster, sharper, more professional, though still laced with the sweet, honest clumsiness of those who hadn’t yet fully understood their bodies, who were still learning how to inhabit their muscles and command their weight. But that hesitation before attacking, that brief pause of guilt before throwing the first punch—no. That was gone.

The doubt was gone. So was the shame.

Now, when one of them fell after a well-placed hit, there were no laughs, no mockery; there were cheers. Shouts of excitement, fists raised, hands slapping the floor or thighs. And at the end of every match, no matter who walked away with a split lip or a darker bruise, the sacred moment always came: both contenders, panting, bleeding, but standing tall, shook hands. Sometimes they hugged. Sometimes they just touched shoulders. It was the act of closing the cycle, sealing with skin what had been said with fists. Because in that club, there was no room for grudges. There, pain was a tool for getting closer.

And outside, in the school hallways, the rumors grew like vines. People spoke of the club in hushed tones during class, between books and tests, as if it were a secret society. In the cafeteria, lunch trays slid by alongside excited whispers, exaggerated versions of what happened behind the gym walls. Some said it was an underground fight ring disguised as a school club; others claimed it was a violent cult led by two lunatics. And yet, no one—yet—had dared to peek in themselves.

Until one day, it happened.

No one in the club noticed at the time. Not Scout, too busy yelling instructions at the fighters. Not Heavy, watching from a corner with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on every movement Herbert made, fighting that day with near-artistic focus. Not even Miss Pauling, as alert as ever with her whistle between her lips, caught it.

But those eyes were there. Cold eyes, sharp as blades, watching through the small rectangular window in the gym door.

It was Kiki.

The blonde stared from the other side of the glass with an expression impossible to fully read. There was distrust in her gaze, yes, but also a hint of suspicion—something close to curiosity that one doesn’t want to admit. She stood still, silent, analyzing everything like someone studying an enemy. Her eyes moved quickly from face to face, from raised fists to smiles between bruises. And just as she had come, she was gone. Without a sound. Like a fleeting shadow. No one knew it then, but the club had just caught the attention of someone who mattered.

Meanwhile, life was finally starting to smile on Scout and Heavy. Clumsy steps, yes, but steady.

Their popularity began to tilt ever so slightly in their favor. They weren’t suddenly idols or the life of the party, but something had changed. The mockery in the halls became less frequent. The giggles behind their backs faded. Indifference—that unbreakable wall—began to crack. Some students even dared to greet them. Scout had personally experienced the unthinkable miracle of someone accepting a fist bump in the middle of the hallway. He had smiled for half an hour straight, unable to stop, like a kid who had finally been handed the participation trophy after too many losses.

Heavy, on his part, felt something even stranger: the judgmental stares—that silent poison that had followed him forever—had softened. People looked at him now with respect, or at least with caution. As if he were no longer the weirdo, the violent one, the outcast. But someone... necessary. Someone who belonged.

The self-defense club had started as a farce, but it was bearing fruit. Unexpected fruit, yes. Fruit that no one had consciously planted, yet was sprouting all the same.

And for Heavy, the best of all those fruits had a name: Herbert.

The growing friendship with the German was becoming something tangible. A rope that tightened every day, sometimes seeming about to snap from the intensity, but never letting go. Herbert greeted him in the halls. And not only that: he did it even when he was with his girlfriend, Kiki, or with the rest of the popular group. Herbert would raise his hand, sometimes smile, and in that brief gesture, Heavy found a kind of redemption he didn’t know he needed.

It wasn’t just courtesy. It was an act of defiance. It was shouting to the world that he didn’t care what they thought. And that... that was enough to set his chest on fire.

Even Scout and Heavy seemed to have earned the tacit—but real—respect of the feared teacher Helen. That woman with a stone face, a voice sharp as a saw, who used to burn them with looks that could pierce the soul. Now, from time to time, she gave them quasi-smiles. Small, discreet, barely noticeable... but there they were. And coming from her, that was as close as it got to an ovation. A damn miracle.

Life, finally, felt kind.

Classes went on, monotonous and gray as always. But leaving them, when backpacks closed and the sun began to lower, something magical happened. The gym awaited them like a temple. There, fists spoke. Blood flowed with purpose. Bruises became invisible medals, and pain... a shared language.

“Little bastard... you were right to start this club,” Heavy murmured as he walked firmly beside Scout, both heading toward the gym, the sun gilding the edges of their long shadows in the afternoon-lit hallways.

Scout, chest puffed up like a peacock in mating season, quickly responded. His voice had that cocky tone that usually sparked murderous looks... but this time, Heavy just rolled his eyes with resignation.

“What did I tell you, huh!? And you always doubting me.” Scout shrugged with a swagger. He walked with hands in pockets, back straight, and a smile barely contained.

“I know,” the Russian conceded, letting out a heavy but honest sigh.

A third voice broke into the conversation from behind, too close.

“At this rate... we’ll be able to take on those bastards from BLU High!” Soldier bellowed, as if he had been waiting for his dramatic moment. “We’ll annihilate them with honor and fists. We’ll make them kiss the concrete like the traitor dogs they are!”

Both Scout and Heavy jumped at his sudden appearance. Scout rolled his eyes with an exaggerated grimace, while Heavy, who knew Soldier’s unpredictable nature all too well, just sighed with a mix of patience and headache. Neither said a word. It was better to let him be. So they kept walking, Soldier trailing behind them like a loud, patriotic shadow.

“You know?” Soldier continued, his tone unexpectedly calmer. His voice dropped just below his usual battle cry. “Even though I like hitting and hurting like any respectable American... I’m liking the club for a different reason.”

Scout raised an eyebrow, surprised by the unusually reflective tone. Heavy noticed it too, but still said nothing. Soldier spoke with a strange slowness, as if the words cost him more than usual.

“We know, we empower them,” Scout answered automatically, as if the explanation were obvious and definitive. He nodded vigorously, pleased with himself, while Soldier looked at him as if he had just heard a prophecy.

“I don’t know\... something weird is happening,” Soldier confessed. “After every fight... I have this feeling, like I want to talk about stuff... open up sentimentally, talk about my childhood, my dad... those things only girls... and film students do.”

The phrase hung in the air for a few seconds.

Heavy and Scout came to an abrupt stop. It wasn’t often they heard Soldier speak with that level of vulnerability, even if it was disguised by his usual disdain for the “soft arts.” The hallway filled with the silence that only happens when someone, unwittingly, speaks a truth.

“That thing you said…” Heavy murmured, staring ahead with narrowed eyes, thoughtful. “Maybe we should try it.”

The idea crawled slowly through his mind, like a new strategy in the middle of a battlefield. “It could help. It’d be another way to train. I love talking about my traumas,” he concluded naturally, as if revealing his favorite ice cream flavor.

Scout seemed even more excited by the idea. His eyes sparkled, and a wide, almost mischievous smile spread across his face.

“We have to do it!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms open. “I heard girls get especially horny after a psychology session. Maybe then Miss Pauling will finally notice me.”

Heavy brought a hand slowly to his face. The gesture was long and painful. Scout couldn’t help it. His soul was an incomprehensible mix of enthusiasm and romantic desperation. Meanwhile, Soldier tilted his head, confused, as if he didn’t understand the concept of “therapeutic horniness.”

But before the moment could turn into mockery, or a serious plan, a figure appeared out of nowhere and stood right in front of them, blocking their way. She wore a short pleated skirt, perfectly pressed, gleaming white socks, and a varsity jacket in the school colors. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail so perfect it seemed to defy gravity, and her smile was as wide as it was dangerous.

“How are you guys?” Kiki said with practiced sweetness, one of those syrupy voices preschool teachers use when asking why you scribbled all over the walls. Her arms moved with studied delicacy, a contained dance of delicate wrists and social manipulation.

Heavy looked at her with immediate suspicion. His eyes narrowed like an old dog sniffing poison in a piece of meat. Scout, on the other hand, tensed but said nothing.

“Hello...?” Heavy finally murmured, in a tone more questioning than friendly. His accent made the distrust already tinting his voice even clearer. Kiki, however, seemed unfazed. Her smile stayed intact, though for a brief instant, barely a blink, her eyes sharpened.

“I’ve been hearing things about your club,” she said, her voice even more saccharine. “It has a very noble mission, I’d say. Very sweet. Very necessary.”

Heavy didn’t answer. He only narrowed his eyes further. Scout crossed his arms, feeling the visit was no good.

“But,” she continued, “I’m worried it might take the spotlight away from our team. You know… the real team. The one that’s going to face BLU in the game of the year.”

Heavy raised an eyebrow. Then, without a word, he raised a hand and thumbed toward the nearest wall. There, a banner hung proudly: Mark, the team captain, posed shirtless in an absurd stance, his body glistening with artificial sweat, ridiculously muscular. It was a glorious mockery of hypermasculinity, with a slogan below that read: “Conquer or die.”

Kiki frowned. It lasted only a moment, barely visible, like a crack in a perfectly applied mask. But Heavy saw it. He savored it. And couldn’t help feeling a pang of satisfaction.

Kiki’s smile returned as if nothing had happened.

“Alright, guys,” she said lightly, spinning on her heels with the grace of a dancer. “See you…”

And with that, she disappeared down the hallways. Her sweet scent lingered in the air like an invisible warning.

Scout let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Heavy turned to look at him, still frowning. Soldier had vanished without anyone noticing.

“Something’s coming,” the Russian murmured.

Scout nodded. “Yeah. And it’s not going to be pretty.”

...

The self-defense club had begun. But it wasn’t like the previous days. There were no sharp punches hitting flesh, no ragged gasps, no Scout’s shouted orders of “Take him down now!” from a corner of the gym. There was no blood. No shoving or yelling. Not that day.

That day, everything was... different.

The court, usually marked with dirty sneaker prints and dried sweat drops, now seemed like an almost sacred space. Instead of moving and hitting, the club members sat in a circle on the worn gym mats, forming an irregular ring of crossed legs, hunched backs, and eyes avoiding meeting each other. Miss Pauling was also sitting with them, part of the circle, her inseparable clipboard resting on her knees. Even she seemed more human today: without her usual firmness, without the whistle hanging from her neck like a silent threat.

Heavy was the one who broke the initial silence, with his deep, grave voice, trying to explain what was happening. He spoke with the calm of a bear who learned not to scare cubs with a roar.

“Well... we know our club is to learn how to defend ourselves. And although until now we have focused on teaching how to do it physically...” His gaze swept the circle, pausing on each face. “Today... we decided to take a more psychological approach. So we’re going to talk a little.”

Some members shifted uncomfortably in their places. A muted murmur rose like a collective sigh. The word “psychological” weighed more than expected. Heavy noticed it, so he added:

“At least today... you’ll get to know a little more about the people you’ve hit.”

Nervous laughter burst out from a couple of boys, an automatic reaction to discomfort. Then, silence. A new one, thicker. This time it wasn’t fear of physical pain holding the teenagers back, but something more primitive and harder to face: shame. That intimate shame of opening your chest and letting out what has been kept inside for years.

It was Scout, naturally, who couldn’t wait any longer.

“Then I’ll start,” he said with his usual energy, though this time there was no bravado, only impatience. He looked at the group with his elbows resting on his knees and said, “Who here gets hit by their parents?”

The silence that followed was colder than before.

Glances darted between each other, first with surprise, then with discomfort. Some frowned, others pretended to check their shoelaces. No one answered. The question hung like a rotten rope over the circle. Scout seemed to have not measured his words, or maybe he had, but his lack of tact was as much a part of him as his high-pitched voice.

Heavy cleared his throat, uncomfortable, turning to his friend with a look that silenced him without words. Scout dropped his shoulders and pretended to draw circles on the floor with his finger.

“How about we start with something simpler?” Heavy suggested, this time more gently, as if trying not to scare a herd of deer. “For example... why did you decide to join the club?”

The silence lasted a few more seconds. Not tense, but thoughtful. Some looked at the floor, others scratched the back of their necks. Finally, a hand slowly rose.

It was Spy.

The Frenchman was leaning on one arm, with the languid posture of someone who’s learned to be bored with elegance. He barely lifted his gaze and murmured in a nasal voice:

“According to the school counselor, it’s mandatory to have a club to pass the year... and in all the others, smoking is forbidden. With the threat of expulsion if you get caught.” He took a drag from his cigarette and let out a sigh as if it was hard for him to be there.

Heavy nodded politely, forcing a neutral smile. No one laughed, but no one judged either. That was the tacit agreement: what was said here wouldn’t leave the circle.

Another hand went up, this time more timid. It was Engie.

The Texan adjusted his glasses nervously, and his fingers trembled slightly as he intertwined them in his lap.

I... well, I heard that the kids from BLU High sneak into the classrooms... that they steal school projects, especially the most advanced ones. And I don’t want my plans, my patents, to be forged or stolen,” he explained, looking down as he spoke. His voice was low, restrained, as if he didn’t want to bother anyone with his concern. “I tried to come up with a defense system... you know, with weapons, motion sensors, electric shocks... but... apparently it’s illegal to set up an electric trap in a school.”

The final tone was almost a childish complaint, and some let out small chuckles. Not mocking, but tender. Miss Pauling even raised an eyebrow and wrote something down with a subtle smile on her face. Heavy watched the scene closely, noticing how even Engie, who was the most reserved of the group, found his moment.

Scout, as always, couldn’t stop watching Miss Pauling. His eyes were fixed on every movement she made, as if every note she wrote on the clipboard was about him. He hoped that at any moment she would say something, look at him, smile at him. Anything. Whatever.

Heavy looked away, and searched for her.

Herbert.

The German was sitting with his legs stretched out, fingers intertwined over his stomach, eyes half closed, but not from boredom, rather restraint. His face was relaxed, but his cheeks had a barely noticeable blush. Despite his usual composure, something in Engie’s story had touched him. His lips pressed into a barely visible grimace, and for the first time, he seemed to have no immediate opinion to voice.

Heavy watched him a few seconds more, noticing how the young man turned his face and looked at the Texan with a strange expression: not mockery, not admiration... but recognition. Respect. As if, seeing someone defend their passion with such devotion, even in a hostile environment, he saw himself reflected.

The true surprise of the day didn’t come from silences or half-confessions. It came, as always, from the most unlikely place. Soldier, who until then had sat with a straight back, as if in military formation even while seated on the gym floor, raised his arm in a martial manner, as if asking permission to launch an offensive. Everyone turned toward him.

When he began to speak, his voice was different.

It wasn’t the martial shout or patriotic rally. It was quieter, more human. Frayed at the edges, as if someone had loosened a screw inside his chest.

“Sometimes... I feel like my dad doesn’t like me,” he said without embellishment, without theatrics. “And sometimes I don’t want to be near him. He makes me feel... small. Or weak. Though that also makes me feel lonely. But...” he paused, looking at the floor for a few seconds, as if the words were hard to hold. Then he looked up with a genuine, bright smile, one of those that disarm. “Since I joined the club... I don’t feel so alone anymore. It’s fun to bleed and hurt alongside you all in this so American gathering.”

The final phrase had that very characteristic stamp of Soldier, a kind of twisted but innocent patriotism. However, this time there were no jeers or laughter. No one judged him. Everyone, even Scout, stayed silent for a moment, processing that strange mix of vulnerability and brutality.

Miss Pauling, who until that moment had been writing on her clipboard with almost clinical concentration, looked up. Her eyes softened. A slight smile appeared on her lips, and she murmured loud enough for Soldier to hear:

“Soldier... that was nice.”

The comment seemed to touch the young man deeply, who brought a hand to his chest as if he had received an invisible medal. Scout, who was beside him, nodded slowly, for the first time without irony.

Then Demoman, who was sitting just to Soldier’s left, laughed quietly, tapped him on the arm, and then, without ceremony, put his arm around his companion’s shoulders. Soldier, without changing his expression, leaned slightly toward him, as if he had always expected that gesture.

Heavy watched them. He felt a strange knot in his stomach.

It wasn’t jealousy or shame... it was something deeper. Guilt.

Guilt because all of that—that moment, those sincere confessions, that fragile but real bond—had come from a lie. From a farce. He had created this club out of desperation, to save himself and Scout from punishment by Principal Redmond Mann. There had been no nobility, not at first. And yet... there they were. Warriors without weapons, learning to hold themselves emotionally in a world that didn’t teach boys how to talk.

And Heavy felt he didn’t deserve it.

He raised his hand.

The movement was slow, as if it was hard to carry the weight that came with it. All eyes turned to him, even Herbert’s, who until then had remained silent, watching with a thoughtful and reserved expression.

“I...” he began, and his voice thundered like a deep drum. He swallowed hard. “I don’t usually talk much about the gulag. Or what happened this summer.”

An invisible shiver ran through the circle. The word “gulag” had that dark power. It was a word that carried history, suffering, fear. A word that had earned Heavy immediate respect, even reverence, among the students. A word that had become his shield... and his cage.

“At first I thought going to the gulag was something... I don’t know, cool,” he continued. Each word was difficult, like tearing a splinter from his chest. “I got a lot of respect for it. Everyone looked at me like I had survived something huge. Something... heroic.”

He didn’t look up. He spoke toward the floor, or perhaps toward his shadow.

“But now I realize they respect me for something I’m not.”

That silence was different. Denser. Fuller of truth.

Heavy knew what he was doing. He was lying. Lying even in his confession. He hadn’t gone to a gulag. But now\... he couldn’t get out of that lie. It was part of his identity. Part of the fabric holding this whole club together.

He hated it.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

“Because sometimes, at night,” he said, his voice trembling for the first time, “I still hear the guards’ screams from the gulag. And the sounds of gunfire.”

It wasn’t real. He knew that. But in his mind, it was starting to be. Like by repeating the story so many times, a part of him began to believe it. To punish his body with false memories to justify real guilt.

“I’ll probably carry that guilt all my life,” he murmured, clenching his fists on his knees. “For being weak. For having to make something up to be someone.”

A pause.

“But now I realize... I don’t have to pretend to be someone else to be loved. I don’t have to just go along to survive.”

Then he lifted his head.

“Because I see you all. And this club. And... I feel like you taught me to be myself. To accept that... sometimes I’m not strong. That I don’t know who I am. And that it’s okay.”

His voice cracked on that last sentence. No one said anything immediately. Not because they didn’t know what to say... but because they didn’t want to break that moment. That bleeding piece of truth, wrapped in the lie of the gulag, but filled with sincerity at its emotional core.

Herbert was watching him. His eyes were wide open, attentive, gentle. There was no judgment in them. Only quiet understanding. His body didn’t move an inch, but something in his expression changed: a small crack opening, barely, like a shy flower.

And in that instant, Heavy knew that even though his lie had brought him there... what he had with them, with Herbert, with the club, even with Scout... was real.

Herbert looked at him, and for once he did not do so with that distant composure that surrounded him like a second skin. He didn’t look at him like a classmate, nor even like the eccentric boy with stories too big for his age. He looked at him with something deeper. Eyes wide open, but body tense, as if every part of him was holding back. Watching him speak, watching him break inside, Herbert had felt something stretch inside his chest—a new feeling, crawling inside him like a timid flame. It had been impossible not to see himself reflected in those halting words, in that painful confession that resonated beyond the lie.

For the first time, he felt something more than sympathy or respect for the Russian.

He felt a sweet and strange attraction, a gentle, warm pull toward that big boy who, despite his size and deep voice, seemed more fragile than everyone present.

Heavy, for his part, didn’t realize it. He couldn’t. Too busy surviving the whirlwind swirling in his chest. He rubbed his face with both hands, as if he needed to wipe away the shame, the guilt, the accumulated exhaustion. Sweat ran down his temples, neck, back. His body ached as if he had run a marathon. But it wasn’t physical. It was emotional. He was drained, overwhelmed... and yes, deeply guilty.

He felt he had opened a door he could no longer close.

“The class... the class is over,” he murmured, his voice rough like coarse paper. “Next meeting... we’ll go back to our usual sessions.”

No one protested. There were no applause or comments. Only tacit acceptance. A silent understanding.

Little by little, the boys began to stand. Some with heavy steps, others still whispering about what they had heard. Miss Pauling wrote something more on her clipboard but said nothing. The group’s murmur faded until it became a distant hum. As if the whole gym now breathed more slowly.

Heavy crouched to pick up his backpack. His fingers trembled slightly. He didn’t know if it was because of the confession... or because every time his eyes met Herbert’s, he felt a chill run down his spine.

And then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He froze.

The touch was soft, almost hesitant. Not a hit or a squeeze. It was a touch full of restrained intention. As if the one who touched him wasn’t quite sure if he should, but did it anyway.

Heavy slowly turned around. And there he was.

Herbert.

Standing in front of him, lips slightly parted, eyes shining behind his round glasses, and an expression Heavy had never seen before. A strange mix of vulnerability, sweetness, and something harder to define... something shy, almost intimate.

“I heard the words you said...” Herbert began, his voice low, almost a whisper. “...and I related so much.”

Heavy felt the world stop. The floor no longer held him, the ceiling no longer existed. It was just the two of them, floating in the middle of that empty gym, in a moment too fragile to breathe.

And then he saw something he had never imagined: Herbert, nervous.

The German looked down for a second, and Heavy noticed how his cheeks, normally pale and composed, were tinged with a soft pink. He saw his glasses slip slightly down the bridge of his nose, and how he adjusted them with that mechanical gesture he usually made when out of his comfort zone. His lips pressed into a delicate, uncertain curve. His fingers were intertwined in front of his chest, playing with the straps of his backpack as if they were a talisman.

He had never seen anything so beautiful.

It wasn’t beauty in the classic sense—Herbert was not perfect. But in that moment, in that shyness, in that strange transparency, he was more beautiful than any image Heavy had ever held in his nighttime dreams.

“And... I wanted to know if you’re free this Saturday afternoon,” Herbert continued, his voice slightly trembling. “I heard you’re good at literature... and I need to study for a test. Could you help me?”

The world stopped again.

No... it broke.

Heavy wasn’t ready. Literally, he wasn’t. He had dreamed of something like this so many times—at night, under the sheets, in secret, wishing that one day Herbert would see him as more than polite. But he never really believed it would happen. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him.

For a second he thought maybe it was a dream. One of those sweet dreams that always ended with him waking up alone and gasping. He blinked several times, trying to hold onto reality.

He couldn’t speak. He felt a rising heat burning his face, ears, neck. He was sure he had turned as red as a tomato, if not worse. He felt steam coming out of his ears, like an old kettle about to whistle. His tongue was dry. His throat was a trap.

So he simply... nodded.

Quickly. Twice. Then a third time, just in case it wasn’t clear. And Herbert smiled. A small, warm, almost grateful smile.

“See you this Saturday at the café on Main Street?” the German added, his voice even quieter. “You know\... after the club fundraiser.”

Again, Heavy nodded firmly. He didn’t trust his voice. If he spoke now, he’d probably shout “I LOVE YOU!” without meaning to. Or stutter like an idiot.

Herbert let out a small laugh. His laugh was restrained, almost silent, but genuine. Then he smiled warmly at him. One of those smiles not given to just anyone. One that Heavy felt etched into his memory as if carved with fire.

“So... see you then,” he said, turning slowly to leave. Each step seemed to echo louder in Heavy’s chest than on the wooden floor.

The Russian watched him walk away as if watching a movie scene. Then, awkwardly, with his hands still on his backpack, he raised a hand to say goodbye. No one was watching. No one heard. But in his mind, that gesture was triumphant.

It was 1970.

They were in the RED high school gym, among dirty mats, dried blood, and the echo of broken confessions.

And a Russian teenager, with a tired heart and hands full of guilt, believed that for the first time in his life... he could die in peace.

...

Classes had ended a while ago, and the sun was slowly slipping from the sky over Teuford as if it, too, were exhausted. The heat of the day faded into a dry breeze that carried dust and the scent of a field stripped of glory. Soldier was already on his way home, his backpack hanging from his shoulder like a corpse, his steps firm and straight, as always. He marched, even when he didn’t have to. Because he wasn’t just another kid from the crowd. No. He was a soldier in training. A future commander. A patriotic hero who, someday, would be decorated by the President of the United States himself for his bravery in combat.

Or at least, that’s what he repeated in his head over and over, like a prayer, so he wouldn’t think about other things.

Soldier lived on the outskirts of town, where the world began to look more like an abandoned desert than a rural community. His home—if it could be called that—was what remained of an old farm that had once been prosperous. Nowadays, it was just a run-down wooden house with peeling paint and a barn held up more by divine will than by its structure. In the distance, the fields stretched out, dry and cracked like the skin of an old man, covered in weeds, nettles, and wild grass. Years ago, fat cows grazed there, and corn and vegetables were harvested. Now, only the sighs of the wind rustling through tall weeds remained, and the melancholy of what once was.

But Soldier didn’t care.

He didn’t need cows, or fertile land, or a functional family. He was a soldier. And soldiers lived with little, trained hard, and slept with one eye open. Soon, he would leave that place to enlist in the army and serve with honor. It was only a matter of time. That’s why it didn’t hurt him to see the ruins of his house or the barn falling to pieces. It was training ground. All of it. Plain and simple.

He walked across the porch, which creaked under his boots as if it were complaining about his existence. There were holes in the rotting wood in some places, a consequence of his many “morning marches,” which, according to him, were essential to staying in shape. His father had yelled at him many times for that. Had insulted him. Had called him “idiot,” “failure,” and other things Soldier preferred not to repeat even in his head. Since then, he had moved his training to the field, away from the house… away from him.

He reached out to open the door. His calloused fingers touched the handle when a sound stopped him. Something almost imperceptible: a low grunt, followed by the unmistakable clink of an empty bottle rolling across the floor.

The young man froze, as if the air around him had suddenly turned to ice.

Through the dusty window, barely lit by the last rays of the sun, he saw a large figure seated in the living room, a half-empty bottle in hand. The man drank slowly, as if savoring the pain. Soldier recognized that hunched posture, that permanent scowl, that void, immediately.

His father was home.

And he was drunk again.

His heart lurched bitterly. A weight dropped into his chest like a sack of stones. His first instinct was to open the door, as always. Face whatever came. Show no fear. Show no weakness. Because soldiers don’t retreat, ever. Never!

But this time… his hand pulled back.

It wasn’t cowardice. No, of course not. It was strategy. A tactical retreat. Sun Tzu himself said it: “Retreat when it is wise. He who survives the battle lives to fight another day.” And Soldier had read—well, stolen—that book from the local library. So really, he was being smart. Wise. A strategist.

He turned and walked around the house without looking back.

The open field was better, safer. There, he could train. He could practice new formations, prepare contingency plans for when the inevitable nuclear holocaust brought by the Soviets arrived. There, he could imagine trenches, build shelters, assign ranks to the animals that visited him.

As he approached the barn, the air smelled of rotting wood and damp hay. Night was almost falling. Everything was tinged with a dull orange color. Then he heard something strange.

Some creaking. Then soft, broken squeals. Moans. Heavy breathing.

Soldier raised an eyebrow. He approached cautiously, eyes narrowed, as if entering enemy territory.

“Lieutenant Bites? Sergeant Scratches? Is that you?” he called out loud, expecting to find his old comrades: a family of raccoons that used to pass by, whom Soldier fed with leftovers from his dinner. He had given them military names and talked to them as if they were part of his platoon. Sometimes he even gave them small badges made of cardboard and tape.

He got closer to the barn door, which hung from a rusty hinge, and pushed hard.

What he found was not what he expected.

No raccoons, no ghosts, no hiding communists.

No. What he found was much worse.

Kiki and Mark.

Both half-naked, tangled among piles of straw, their bodies intertwined in a rather immodest position, panting, flushed. The heat of the moment still visible on their faces, in the dampness of the air. The barn, his base of operations, his fortress, his patriotic sanctuary... defiled.

For a moment, no one moved. The three teenagers froze like statues, time stopped by shame, disbelief, confusion.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY MILITARY BASE?!” Soldier roared, his eyes wide, face red with indignation. It was as if the entire universe had betrayed his values, as if he had witnessed a war crime on sacred ground.

Kiki covered herself as best she could, shielding her chest with her arms while yelling, and Mark babbled unintelligible words, trying to get up while hiding his nakedness with a dirty hay blanket. Both looked petrified by humiliation, by the horror of being caught.

“THIS IS RESTRICTED TERRITORY! A WAR ZONE! A ZONE OF MORAL PURITY! MY MILITARY BASE!” Soldier kept shouting, spinning around as if looking for a solution, a punishment, a bomb to throw on them.

Kiki stammered an excuse that was lost in the air.

Mark only raised his hands, as if surrendering could save him from the judgment of that fury-possessed teenager.

And Soldier, still red-faced, chest heaving, and morale in the dumps, pointed an accusing finger.

“YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS! YOU HAVE DEFILED THE HONOR OF THIS PATRIOTIC INSTITUTION WITH YOUR IMPURE FORNICATION!” Then he turned on his heel, outraged, spat to the side as if that cleaned the floor, and marched out of the barn with military steps, muttering incoherent phrases about betrayal, dishonor, and divine punishment.

But as he walked away, his expression changed.

A shadow slid over his face. It wasn’t just anger.

It was sadness.

Soldier rubbed his eyes hard, as if he needed to clear them. Not because of what he had seen... but because of what he felt. Because even though he shouted, even though he raged, even though he swore vengeance, deep down... he didn’t understand why it hurt so much.

And in the loneliness of the field, with the weeds whispering around him, Soldier finally sat down alone, watching the sky turn dark blue.

And for the first time in a long time... he felt small.

...

Saturday arrived with the deceptive softness of any ordinary day. The sky was clear, the sun hadn’t yet burned fiercely, and the light breeze blowing through the parking lot of Teuford’s only mall carried that peculiar scent of hot asphalt, cheap coffee, and stubbed-out cigarettes. Still, for the kids in the self-defense club, it wasn’t just another day. It was their first big event. Their first official fundraiser. And excitement filled every corner of the place, like electricity about to explode.

The club members had been there early, most with sleepy, swollen eyes but nervous smiles. Engie had arrived an hour before the others to help Heavy set up the makeshift ring in the middle of the parking lot. They had barely put it together using school gym mats, elastic cords, and traffic posts they found at an abandoned construction site. It wasn’t elegant or safe, but it worked. It was enough to make noise, grab attention… and raise money.

Miss Pauling, impeccably dressed despite the early hour, held high a sign that read:
TEEN FIGHT! BETTING OPEN!

Scout had suggested a different name: “Suburban Youth Fury,” but Pyro insisted on decorating it himself. The sign was adorned with pink glitter, macaroni glued in the shape of letters, and little flames drawn with red crayon. Miss Pauling, resigned, had accepted. In its own way, it was eye-catching. And strange. Like everything they’d been doing lately.

But the most worrying thing—though no one said it aloud—was the number of adults gathered to watch a group of teenagers brutally beat each other up. Some wore binoculars. Others had small notebooks where they recorded statistics. A few even brought flasks of hidden liquor, betting with crumpled bills and disturbing enthusiasm. The event was a smashing success, though probably illegal in six states.

From the sidewalk, Scout and Heavy watched the fight of the moment: a showdown between Spy and Demoman. The Frenchman, elegant even in combat, dodged with precision, but Demoman dragged him with brute strength and a drunken laugh. The crowd roared as if they were in Las Vegas.

“This is our first fundraiser, can you believe it?” Scout exclaimed, voice brimming with pride. He had his arms crossed over his knees and his eyes shining intensely. “Look at those tickets. Pyro did wonders. They’re selling like hotcakes.”

Heavy nodded, his gaze also fixed on the fight. But there was something else in his eyes, a lingering distraction, a restrained smile that didn’t come from the ring or the shouts.

Scout noticed that expression.

“If we keep up these numbers…” he said with a playful nudge, “I’m buying you ice cream this afternoon, as thanks for not killing me with a judo hold during Wednesday’s practice.”

But Heavy shook his head, half-smiling.

“I don’t think so. I’m busy this afternoon.”

“Busy?” Scout asked, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. “You’re never busy on Saturdays. What’s going on, Heavy?”

Heavy lowered his eyes to the ground, but they quickly lifted toward the small admin booth they had set up with soda crates and an old umbrella. Behind that makeshift counter, Herbert and Engie worked diligently. They handed out tickets, collected money, recorded bets on a spreadsheet printed on fluorescent pink paper. It was an absurd scene… and charming.

But it wasn’t Engie who held all of Heavy’s attention. It was Herbert. With his neatly ironed shirt, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, and that elegant way he moved his hands, like he was always in a German opera. At one point, as if he could feel the Russian’s gaze, Herbert looked up—and found him. And then it happened: that smile.

That damn smile with the power to bring down entire armies.

Heavy waved awkwardly, and his heart skipped a beat.

Scout saw the whole thing. He raised both eyebrows, amused.

“What was that?” he asked, almost sing-song. “You and little Mozart?”

Heavy rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

“Maybe… maybe Herbert and I are seeing each other this afternoon. At the café on Main Street.” He said it in a quiet voice, like saying it louder might break the spell. “After the event.”

Scout let out a huge dramatic gasp, jumping to his feet like he’d just uncovered a global conspiracy.

“You?! You have a date?! God, the world’s ending!” he shouted jokingly, giving his friend a couple of playful punches on the arm. “That means I’ve gotta hurry! I can’t let you, you bastard, beat me to it.”

Heavy burst into genuine laughter, the kind that came from deep in his chest. For a moment, everything was good. The club was working, people were starting to respect them, school was no longer a constant battlefield. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

Life, at least for one day, was kind.

But not everyone shared that feeling.

Less than a meter away, face-down on the hot asphalt, was Soldier. His face pressed against the ground, arms spread like he had surrendered to existence itself. He was muttering incomprehensible things, his lips loose, his gaze vacant.

“…she… they… defiled the barn… with their impure bodies… the nation was desecrated… there is no redemption…”

Scout glanced sideways at him. “Is he… okay?”

Heavy looked down too. Soldier had been lying there for at least fifteen minutes. He seemed to have reached the emotional bottom of something, but no one had the courage to ask what.

Soldier groaned softly, turning his head slightly to look at the sky as if searching for a divine sign. “I will never love again. I will never trust. Betrayal… smells like hay…”

Scout shrugged. “Well, at least he’s not dead.”

And just then, the ring erupted in applause. Demoman had won another match, this time against Sniper, who lay sprawled on the mat with a bloody grin and his arms stretched out like he was on the cover of a punk rock album. The adults cheered, the money kept flowing, and the TEEN FIGHT sign shimmered under the midday sun.

Everything was working.

But the best part was still to come.

Heavy checked his watch. His date was only a few hours away.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… he was afraid.

But also hopeful.

Soldier groaned again, this time louder, as if dragging all the sorrows of the world inside his chest. His voice, usually booming with patriotic fervor and ridiculous threats, was now barely a pitiful echo of itself.

“Come on, Soldier. You’re depressing me too much. Get your ass off the ground and say what’s going on,” Scout snapped.

Heavy, more compassionate, simply watched as the boy collapsed like a sack of wet potatoes beside him. Soldier let himself fall heavily, his boots landing with a dull thud on the concrete, his whole body folding inward like the world had crushed him.

With a long sigh, Heavy turned slightly, shifting closer to Soldier, and spoke gently:

“What’s going on, boy? You don’t seem like yourself… and that worries me.”

Soldier didn’t lift his head, but muttered darkly:

“It was that vile weakling Mark… and that dangerous beast called Kiki…”

Scout and Heavy exchanged looks, both raising their eyebrows at the same time. They knew that when Soldier got cryptic, it was hard to follow… but this time he seemed more serious. More real.

“What are you talking about?” Heavy asked carefully, like he was about to step on an emotional landmine.

“The barn… my military base… defiled,” Soldier muttered through gritted teeth, eyes hidden between his knees, arms crossed like a shield. “They stained the morals of my patriotic hideout…”

Scout let out a short snort and crossed his arms but said nothing. Heavy, on the other hand, leaned in a little more, tilting his head to try and catch a glimpse of Soldier’s face.

“I don’t get it… you mean Mark and Kiki? They did something?”

Soldier nodded slowly, with the kind of resignation only seen in people who’ve watched the world collapse beneath their feet. As if that simple motion was him admitting he had lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting.

“Something bad,” he said in a hollow voice. “I don’t even want to go back into my military base. What if I sit somewhere… that’s filled with their… unpatriotic fluids?”

Scout let out an incredulous laugh, but quickly swallowed it. Something in Soldier’s sadness shut him up. Heavy simply remained still, stunned.

"What did they do?" the Russian pressed, his voice tight with a mix of confusion and growing unease. If Kiki was involved, he needed to know.

Soldier growled, lifting his head slowly as if it weighed a ton. Then, with an expression of pure outrage, almost torn apart from within, he said:

"Mark and Kiki had sex in my barn!"

There was a full second of silence.

Scout blinked slowly.

Heavy froze.

The roar of the crowd around the ring sounded very, very far away.

"Are you sure about that?" Scout asked, not even trying to hide his surprise.

"I saw it with my own eyes!" Soldier exclaimed, his teeth clenched and a vein throbbing in his temple. "Mark, the school team's captain, with his cereal-commercial hair! Kiki, that blonde chaos strategist, in her cheerleader uniform! It was definitely them! The entire scene is burned into my memory like a war documentary!"

Heavy and Scout looked at each other again with the kind of expression people share when they’re confronted with a revelation too absurd to process right away.

"I guess you're mad at them for…" Heavy began, carefully.

"For desecrating my military base!" Soldier interrupted with a desperate groan. "Isn't it enough that I'm treated like dirt at school? Now they come to invade my sacred territory? My place for training, for reflection, for strategic nuclear planning!"

But this time… the words weren’t filled with rage.

They weren’t the usual loud outbursts he threw around in the hallways or during practice.

This time, they sounded broken. Sad. Hollow.

There was pain.

And loneliness.

Heavy noticed it. Scout did too. And for once, they didn’t cut him off with sarcasm or brush it off with jokes.

The Russian moved a little closer and, without saying much, placed his large, warm hand on Soldier’s shoulder, giving him a few gentle pats.

"Listen," he said calmly, "I know things feel dark right now. But trust me… it’ll get better. We’ll help you get revenge. Like good comrades."

Soldier didn’t respond immediately. His shoulders trembled slightly, like something was on the verge of breaking inside. But then he nodded. Slowly. With resignation. As if just the act of not being alone was enough for now.

Scout let out a long sigh and dropped down beside them, staring up at the sky like he was trying to make sense of the clouds.

"God… this self-defense club is getting weirder every week."

"And stronger," Heavy added with a crooked smile.

In the distance, a new match began. Pyro jumped into the ring with his inflatable gloves on, and the adults clapped with excitement. Miss Pauling rang a bell to start the round, while Engie furiously scribbled numbers into his notebook.

But there, in that forgotten corner of the parking lot, three teenagers gave themselves permission to feel just a little less broken. A little less alone.

Life, with all its brutality, went on.

But at least, it did so with company.

Chapter 5

Notes:

I'm out on the block again
So hopped up that I can't pretend
Two time, stay friends
Problem that you can't defend (oh)
Hands up, feel okay
Whose heart could I break today?
Two time, stay friends
Problem that you can't defend
---
"Two Time" Song By Jack Stauber

The warmth of the midday sun had turned nearly scorching, thick with that sticky heat that clung to the skin like a second layer. The soccer club's training field was boiling with activity. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, sweat, and youthful determination. Players sprinted with unstoppable energy from one end of the field to the other, their footsteps thudding against the packed dirt in rhythm with the constant bounce of balls. Others, more focused, practiced penalty shots or passed the ball back and forth with careful precision, trying to refine their technique.

From the bleachers, the cheerleaders shook their pom-poms with mechanical enthusiasm. Sharp laughter and excited squeals filled the air whenever one of the players ran close, especially when one of them, without breaking stride, took the time to flash a flirty glance or a sweaty wink, triggering bursts of giddy energy from the girls. It all felt like a scene from a teen commercial: youth, sports, summer, and the promise of something exciting in the air.

But not everyone shared in that shallow excitement. One of them stayed apart from the spectacle. Kiki, her cheerleading uniform only slightly tousled by the breeze, stood on the sidewalk just beyond the field. Half-hidden inside a phone booth that smelled of rust and electricity, she spoke in a low voice, holding the receiver firmly against her ear. Her fingers, stained with blue ink, gripped a notebook already filled with scribbled notes, and tucked between her arm and side was a thick, messy phone directory—the kind only stubborn, meticulous people still used.

"Yeah, hi... I heard the Volkov family left town..." Her voice was low, discreet, yet clear. She spoke with an urgent, precise tone, like someone who already knew the answers but needed to hear them confirmed.

"No, no... Yes, Mikhail Volkov, that's the name. He was supposed to leave town this summer for Russia..." She kept talking as the tip of her pen slid over names in the directory, crossing some out, circling others. "Any trips under his name? Yes? But none out of state? Okay, okay..."

Her words were punctuated by the distant sound of the coach’s whistle and the cheerleaders’ laughter in the background, a reminder of everything she was leaving behind to focus on what really mattered.

Her gaze was sharp, focused. The shadow of the booth cast across half her face, giving her an almost conspiratorial air. Kiki wasn’t joining the games or the shouting. She was gathering information. Weaving a plan. The self-defense club’s mask had lasted too long. And if someone had to tear it off in one strike, it would be her.

It’s time for the self-defense club’s farce to end, she thought, clutching the notebook tightly to her chest. And Kiki would be the one to do it.

...

Night had fallen over the town like a slow, heavy cloak, covering the streets in long shadows and a damp chill that signaled the end of summer. On Main Street, the wrought-iron lampposts flickered with a faint light, and the café at the crossroads—one of the few places that stayed open past eight—stood like a small haven of warmth and normalcy.

The inside of the café was bathed in a soft, golden light, the kind that felt like home. The light wood-paneled walls gave off a cozy atmosphere, almost outside of time. The smell of freshly grilled burgers and strawberry milkshakes mixed with the low hum of the jukebox, which played a faint country tune too soft to compete with the quiet conversations and the electric buzz of the machines.

At one of the tables by the window, two boys shared that nighttime refuge. They weren't there by chance. In front of them, the table was cluttered with thick textbooks, open notebooks, and uncapped pens, as if they had actually been studying. But the books had long since been forgotten, pushed aside by something much more intimate: a conversation that flowed like a calm river, full of soft laughter, stolen glances, and meaningful silences.

"So, you want to study medicine?" Heavy asked, his voice lower than usual, as if he were afraid the moment might shatter if he spoke too loud. There was something in his expression—a mix of awe and genuine interest—that made it clear that every word from his companion mattered deeply to him.

Herbert nodded gently, with a shy smile that slowly crept up his cheeks until it colored his cheekbones with a faint, almost imperceptible blush.

"Yes," he replied with a soft accent, marked by his German roots. "Medicine is fascinating in all its fields. I'm searching for universities and scholarships."

He took a sip from his strawberry milkshake, the straw making a soft slurping sound as it hit the bottom of the glass, and his gaze returned to Heavy’s, as if he were waiting for his approval.

"Wow, that’s so cool. You're already like... a doctor," Heavy said, his voice faltering for a moment. Then, suddenly, with a burst of improvised courage, he added with awkward enthusiasm, "Can I call you Medic? I don’t think I can wait until you get your license."

The silence that followed lasted only a couple of seconds, but it felt like forever. A nickname. A simple gesture. But in that context, at that moment, it meant something. Calling him that was an invitation into something more intimate. Something that went beyond friendship and study sessions. It was a small step into the unknown.

Herbert looked down for a moment, thoughtful, then raised his gaze with new confidence in his eyes. He nodded.

"Medic... Medic... I like it," he murmured, as if trying the nickname out loud for the first time. "You can call me that."

From a nearby table, a couple of students looked up briefly. Their eyes met. Curious. Maybe judging. But they didn’t say anything. And they didn’t need to. Sometimes the whole world could become a distant murmur when someone called you by the name you had chosen for yourself. Especially when they said it with a smile like that.

The milkshakes were slowly melting under the warm light, the books stayed open but forgotten, and the words hung in the air like promises they weren’t quite ready to say.

Medic smiled. One of those soft, small, almost timid smiles. Then, silence drifted between them like a thin blanket. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t stiff—rather, it was... intimate. A moment suspended in time where words were unnecessary. And in that exact moment, just as the jukebox ended a song and the murmur of other customers seemed to fade, Medic's hand slid forward until it touched Heavy’s.

The gesture was simple. A touch. But for Heavy, it was as if the entire world had stopped. The German’s fingertips were soft, almost silky, with a warmth that violently contrasted with the roughness of his own hands—large, broad, marked by training calluses and fresh cuts on the knuckles. That touch, light yet firm, felt like the wet petal of a rose on stone—a perfect contradiction. Medic touched him with a delicacy that didn’t feel real.

Heavy swallowed hard, feeling his throat tighten. It was 1970. And this, this was the closest he had ever been to a boy in a romantic context. No one had taught him how to do this, how to accept it, how to live something like this. And even more so, what it meant to share it with Medic... with Medic, who had for so long been a distant, unreachable figure—the reason behind his most private thoughts and personal doubts.

Then, as if that contact had given him the courage he needed, Medic spoke. His voice trembled slightly, but it was clear. A confession. A sign of something more.

"I wanted to thank you, for creating the self-defense club," he murmured, with a sincerity that cut through everything. His eyes were fixed on Heavy, and in them shone honest, deep admiration that dismantled the Russian in seconds. "Going to a gulag, coming back and helping us defend ourselves... you're so impressive."

The words hit Heavy like lead in the chest. He went still. Paralyzed. His breath turned shaky, and inside, a thick guilt settled in his stomach. The lie. The damn gulag. That story, invented by pure accident, to protect himself, to seem strong. Now, Medic looked at him that way—with respect, with tenderness—only because of that lie. He felt every fiber of his body shrink with shame. It was like his own skin weighed him down.

"No... I'm not impressive. I..." he stammered, looking away, unable to meet Medic’s clear eyes. A stab of fear cut through him. He was losing something before he’d even had it.

But then, Medic laughed softly. That nasal, charming laugh that always made Heavy feel a little lighter, a little dumber, and more in love. And he intertwined his fingers with Heavy’s. It wasn’t a casual move. It was deliberate. It was intimate. And in that second, Heavy’s heart beat hard beneath his shirt, like it wanted to escape his chest. His mind was a storm—a mix of euphoria and panic.

"Of course you are," Medic whispered, with a sweetness reserved only for him. "And I really admire you for that... I don’t know\... when I’m with you, I feel a warmth toward you..."

They both looked down at their joined hands. Medic’s were so pale, so delicate compared to his. It was like holding something fragile, something that might break if held too tightly. And Heavy had never wanted to protect something so much in his life.

The silence returned, thick with electricity. A whirlwind of thoughts flooded Heavy’s mind. He had to tell him the truth. Not for himself, but for Medic. Out of respect. Out of love. Out of a desire to be real for him—not an invented hero.

"I have to tell you something," he said in a trembling voice, quieter than he wanted. "It’s really important..."

Medic looked at him then. All of his attention. His soft, attentive face—without judgment, without suspicion. The Russian felt his lungs collapse under the weight of his anxiety. This was what he had always wanted: Medic’s attention. To be seen by him. But now that he had it, he couldn’t bear the weight of his own truth.

He tried. He really tried.

“This is... I…”

But the German’s expectant gaze, that sweet look, that barely curved smile… it was too much.

“Kiki is cheating on you,” Heavy finally said, like an electric shock. A betrayal of himself. It wasn’t what he had meant to say. It wasn’t the truth he needed to confess. But it was what came out.

Medic froze. His smile broke across his face like a shattered statue. The silence was brutal.

“Wait... what?” he stammered, barely able to breathe. “What are you talking about?”

Heavy swallowed hard. His tongue felt dry as paper. There was no turning back now.

“It was Soldier… He caught her having sex with Mark in his barn…” he murmured, his voice weighed down by guilt.

Disbelief crossed Medic’s face like a swift shadow. Then he let out a short laugh, some kind of automatic response that didn’t make sense. But the laugh grew. It shifted from denial to absurdity, and then to full, uncontrolled laughter, broken by shallow breaths. He laughed with a force that didn’t fit the moment. And that made Heavy shrink in place. That laugh wasn’t real. It was defensive. It was desperate.

The Russian opened his mouth to say something, but before he could form a word, Medic shot to his feet. His milkshake tipped over and crashed to the floor, staining the cracked linoleum of the café with pink. The glasses on the table rattled. A few heads turned in their direction, startled by the noise.

“I have to go home…” Medic blurted out. His voice was a mix of panic and confusion. He gathered his books, his notebooks, his scattered papers, like he wasn’t really seeing what he was doing. He was a whirlwind of movement, of chaos.

And then he left. The tiny bells above the door barely rang. The night air wrapped around him as he crossed the threshold, leaving Heavy behind, alone, with the messy table, a broken heart, and a milkshake bleeding out across the floor like the perfect symbol of what he had just lost.

Heavy didn’t move. He just sat there. Staring at his empty, trembling hands.

I wasn’t strong. Not enough to tell the truth. Not enough to stay silent.

And now, maybe, he had lost everything.

...

The next day began under a leaden sky and thick air—the kind that promises rain but never delivers. At school, however, the atmosphere was as hectic as ever. By recess, the hallways buzzed with life—a mix of hurried footsteps, laughter, the metallic scrape of trays, and overlapping conversations in a chaotic symphony of youth and routine.

When the recess bell rang, its shrill echo announcing a brief break from academic tedium, the cafeteria turned into a swarm. The double doors banged open again and again, letting in dozens of hungry students. Some rushed to grab the best seats; others wandered, searching for someone to join. The air was already heavy with the smell of stale fries, watery soup, and a suspicious blend of cheap detergent.

And as always, at the most strategic corner of the cafeteria—the only table that was somewhat clean, free of dried stains or obscene graffiti, far enough from the kitchen to avoid the stench of rancid grease, but also distant enough from the door to avoid the constant creak of metal—sat Kiki.

Sitting with studied elegance, legs crossed, torso perfectly upright as if her spine had never known the weight of defeat, Kiki was the undisputed queen of that small domain. Around her, the cheerleaders gathered in a half-circle, like satellites orbiting their sun, and a few football players—more interested in flirting than eating—joined from time to time, pretending not to care.

"Look, girls! Totally original, my dad brought it back from his trip to Canada," exclaimed one of the new team members, a girl with perfectly straightened hair and a high-pitched voice who was still trying to secure her place in the hierarchy. With obvious pride, she held up a cream-colored oversized faux-fur sweater. It had that expensive, soft look that could fool the eye—but not the touch.

The other cheerleaders leaned in with murmurs of admiration, touching the sweater with their fingertips as if it were an exotic animal. Some giggled, others made compliments about how “fancy” it looked, though most were simply copying each other. It was part of the ritual: faking admiration as currency for acceptance.

And then, without warning, a shriek cut through the air.

"Go throw that hideous thing away!" snapped Kiki, frowning with genuine disgust as she physically leaned away from the sweater, as if it were radioactive. Her gaze locked onto the garment with a mix of disdain and revulsion. To those present, it was almost theatrical. But behind the gesture, there was a real reason.

Kiki had a severe allergy to synthetic fur. She knew it. She felt it. That sweater, though visually deceiving, gave off that faint chemical scent her body recognized as an enemy. Her skin was already beginning to itch just from being a few feet away. In past incidents, a simple brush against the material had left her with angry welts. In others, her throat had swollen shut, leaving her gasping, on the edge of collapse.

She didn’t wait for explanations. Didn’t want justifications. With a single look, Mark—who sat beside her like the loyal dog who obeyed before thinking—was already on his feet, took the sweater without a word, and, to the awkward silence of the new girl, tossed it into the nearest trash bin. The dull thud of the sweater hitting the bottom was the indisputable end of the matter. No one protested. No one dared.

Kiki smiled, satisfied. And as if nothing had happened, she resumed her conversation, ignoring the tearful eyes of the new cheerleader, who now didn’t know whether to go retrieve her sweater or pretend she had never brought it.

...

At the other end of the cafeteria, the scene was entirely different. There, at the farthest tables—the most battered ones, covered in layers of forgotten initials and hardened gum stuck underneath—sat the misfits. The shadows. The ones nobody noticed unless it was to mock them.

At one of those tables, Scout and Heavy shared a tray of food that they had barely touched. Although they technically weren’t alone—several members of the self-defense club sat nearby, eating quietly or chatting among themselves—there was a lonely aura hanging over the two of them. Conversation was sparse. The mood, dim.

Scout ate with the ease of someone who had never known shame, stuffing large spoonfuls into his mouth noisily. And between bites, he shamelessly stole scoops from Heavy’s tray, who didn’t seem to notice… or simply didn’t care. The Russian’s gaze was fixed on his food, stirring it with his fork without bringing anything to his mouth. He just pushed around what looked like mashed potatoes with meat toward the edges of the tray, as if he could somehow fix the problems burning in his chest by rearranging them.

The previous night echoed constantly in his head. Medic’s hand on his. The warmth. The laughter. The contact. The confession… and then, the collapse. The impulse to throw out that absurd betrayal about Kiki, just to deflect attention, just to avoid confessing what really needed to be said. Guilt had woken up with him that morning, and now sat heavy on his shoulders like a shadow too thick to ignore.

"And... how’d it go last night?" Scout mumbled between mouthfuls.

His tone was light, teasing. He said it with a smirk, like he was expecting a romantic anecdote, maybe a stolen kiss, maybe a bold gesture. But the answer didn’t come right away. Heavy blinked, opened his mouth… and closed it again. He didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know if he even should.

Because how do you explain what happened? How do you put into words the brush of a hand that meant so much? How do you say that the boy you liked had been inches away… and instead of telling him the truth, you hurt him with something else?

Heavy opened his mouth again, but nothing came out. Scout watched him with furrowed brows and curiosity, a meatball dangling from his fork.

"I’d say... not great, probably," Heavy finally muttered, defeated, his voice barely a whisper.

Scout swallowed his food. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, looking down, thoughtful.
For once, he didn’t crack a joke. He didn’t laugh. He just nodded.
And kept eating in silence.

The low murmur of the cafeteria continued like a steady river, unaware of the tension building in certain corners. The sound of cutlery against trays, the trivial conversations, the scattered laughter… all part of the daily ritual. No one noticed it yet, but something was coming. Something ready to explode.

And then it happened.

The cafeteria doors burst open with a metallic slam so loud the echo bounced off the walls and even the ceiling lights seemed to flicker. The noise in the room cut off as if someone had pressed an invisible switch. Heads turned in unison toward the entrance, and what they saw wasn’t just anyone. It was a storm in human form.

There he was.

Medic.

Not the kind, brilliant boy everyone knew. Not the straight-A student, the soft-voiced prodigy with surgical manners. No. What walked into the center of the cafeteria carried an entirely different energy. There was an icy, focused fury in his eyes. His brow was deeply furrowed, and his lips pressed together with such fierce tension his teeth were grinding. Every step he took made the floor creak under his perfectly polished shoes.

Silence fell over the room.

Students moved aside automatically, without a word. They cleared his path as if he were carrying fire in his pockets. The air thickened with every step he took. What radiated from his body wasn’t just anger—it was the restrained edge of something violent, a pain too deep to show itself any other way.

And just behind him, a few steps away, came Soldier. Following like a duckling behind its mother, his face unreadable, walking with the same stiff martial energy as always, as if this confrontation were just another battle to face together.

Medic’s path was clear. He was heading straight for the popular kids’ table. More specifically—her.

Kiki sat as she always did, cloaked in her usual air of superiority, wearing a calm smile and a perfectly placed strand of hair behind her ear. But that expression shattered the moment she saw Medic’s burning glare. Confusion was the first thing in her eyes. Then came fear, so quickly she didn’t have time to hide it. Her shoulders shrank slightly, but noticeably. Instinct told her something was wrong. Very wrong.

And it didn’t take long to prove it.

Medic reached the table and, without hesitation, slammed his right hand down against its surface. The wood groaned under the impact, and the sound of the hit echoed through the entire cafeteria, louder than the lunch bell. A few trays jumped an inch off the table. The silence was absolute, tense, electric.

Kiki flinched. All color drained from her face.

"Herbie? Is something wr—?" she tried to ask in a weak voice, trying to keep control, still wearing that fake sweetness that usually worked on everyone. But not this time.

The response came, sharp as a scalpel.

"Are you having sex with Mark?" Medic hissed. Each word was like a razor blade slicing through the table. His tone wasn’t loud. It was low, controlled… but lethal.

Kiki’s pupils trembled in her eyes. Panic was visible, liquid, spreading across her face like black ink in clear water. Her mouth trembled. Sweat beaded on her forehead, even though the air was cool. She knew she couldn’t lie. She knew he already knew.

"What? You know I love only you, how could I do something like that to you?" she exclaimed, raising her voice, trying to sound convincing. But nervousness crept into every syllable. Little squeaks escaped her throat between words, her breathing was erratic. It was obvious she was improvising. Medic stared at her. He didn’t blink.

"Answer my question," he repeated, more forcefully now, his jaw clenched. "Are you cheating on me? Yes or no?"

Kiki swallowed hard. She was trembling.

"Of course not! I would never do such a thing!" she shrieked, raising her voice even more, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, justifying herself to an angry parent. Some of the football players quietly stepped back. No one was going to defend her. They knew the storm was coming.

Then, from behind Medic, Soldier spoke.

"I saw you and Mark having sex in my barn," he said with absolute clarity. His tone was neutral, like he was commenting on the weather. But his presence was devastating. A second stone thrown into already turbulent waters.

Kiki’s face twisted, like the world had just collapsed around her. Medic’s gaze hardened even more, his eyes now blades. And then… then Mark, sitting just a few feet away, opened his mouth.

"See, I told you we should’ve gone to a motel…" he muttered without thinking, like stating the obvious, completely forgetting they were in front of the whole school and his voice could be heard by everyone. It was like hammering the final nail into his own coffin.

Kiki let out a long, broken sigh. Her shoulders collapsed. There was no room for lies now, no excuses, no manipulation. Everything was exposed. Everything.

Medic let out a low, guttural growl, more beast than human. And he slammed his hand against the table again. Harder this time. Cups rattled. His chest heaved with restrained rage. Then he slowly turned his head toward Mark, as if dissecting him with his eyes. There was something perversely amused in his broken smile. A dangerous calm before the storm.

"Herbert, I…" Kiki tried to say. Her voice was barely a whisper.

But there was nothing left to say.

"No," Medic replied, his voice low and acidic. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."

And then he said it. Clear as a verdict.

"We’re done."

The words dropped like a death sentence. No pleading, no negotiation. Medic didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need to hear one. He turned around with a sharp, precise motion and walked away from the table with his head held high, back straight, and fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Soldier followed silently, asking nothing. As always.

Kiki didn’t cry. Not there. She just stared into nothing. Surrounded by curious looks, whispers, murmurs that spread like wildfire through the cafeteria. She was no longer the queen. Now she was just a cheating scandal. And Mark… Mark simply lowered his head, like a dog that knows it’s been caught, too ashamed to look up or apologize.

...

The school hallways felt narrower than usual. As if the very air tensed around them, thick with the rage pouring off Medic’s body like acid vapor. The group marched in a tight formation, a small army drawing the stares of every student who peeked from their lockers or pretended to fumble through books just to watch discreetly. No one said a word. No one dared.

At the front, Medic walked with stiff, sharp steps, like he was crushing more than just the floor beneath him. Behind him, the self-defense club followed like a loyal swarm. They were his shadow, his shield, his pack on the hunt for justice. Each had their own way of showing support: some with cold glares, others with sharp comments, and a few with that dangerous spark in their eyes that only appears when violence becomes personal.

Among them, Heavy and Scout walked with a mix of caution and concern. They weren’t fully swept up in the storm of vengeance, but neither could —or wanted to— stay out of it. Heavy, especially, kept slightly to the side, his brow furrowed. It wasn’t distrust toward Medic, but a quiet worry about what that unleashed anger might lead to. A worry that hurt.

Then Demoman, in a gesture that was part camaraderie, part emotional combustion, stepped up to the German and offered him his flask of Scrumpy without a word. Medic took it like a sacrament. Without hesitation, he raised the bottle, tilted his head back, and downed the entire thing in one long gulp. The liquid scorched his throat, forced a loud hiss from his lips, and then he hurled the flask violently to the ground, where it shattered in a sharp crack, exploding into a rain of glass.

Everyone stopped for a moment. The sound of shards sliding across the tiles echoed like a declaration of war.

"I’m going to ruin Kiki and Mark. I’m going to destroy Mark and his stupid face," Medic growled through clenched teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, but not tearful; there was no sadness in his face, only fury held in place with the precision of a scalpel. "That idiot thinks he can mock me, use me… I’ll break his jaw and make him swallow it!"

The words were barely a whisper, but each one crackled with electricity. The group nodded, one by one, like a ritual. A silent vow that they were in this together. One of their own had been hurt. That would not go unanswered.

"We should beat him with my wrenches," Engie offered with a crooked smile, his soft southern voice at odds with the malice in his eyes.

"Let’s egg his house," Sniper chimed in, perched on Medic’s shoulder with a wild glint in his eye. "Or we could put a rotten one in the exhaust pipe. That’s a classic."

"If you want, I can make up some humiliating rumors. I could say he’s got crabs… or wets the bed," added Spy, smoking calmly, like planning a social takedown was no more complicated than planning lunch.

"What about a rocket launcher?" said Soldier, with his usual lack of tact and overabundance of enthusiasm.

Everyone froze. Even the echo of their footsteps seemed to stop.

The group turned to look at him —first in confusion, then disbelief.

Even Medic, whose rage had been a steady flood, slowly turned his head, unsure if he’d heard right.

"I could blow up his car," Soldier added seriously. "I can get one."

Silence. The only sound was the distant hum of the hallway’s electrical system.

"Yeah, Soldier. Go ahead... commit domestic terrorism," Scout said, eyebrows raised, rolling his eyes hard.

A stifled chuckle ran through the group, like a valve releasing just a bit of pressure. It lasted only a second. Then they kept walking.

But Heavy saw something else. He saw how Soldier, at the back of the group, smiled just slightly. A subtle, sinister curve.

As if he hadn’t been joking at all.

...

Night had fallen like a heavy blanket over the city. The streets were empty, damp with the promise of a rain that never came. The streetlights flickered intermittently, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. The wind smelled of dry earth and gasoline.

In the middle of that darkness, an old minivan drove along a back road, its wheels softly crunching against the cracked asphalt. It was Sniper’s van: once white, now grayish from dirt, with a few suspicious dents and a bumper hanging like a broken tongue. The windows were slightly fogged from the warm breath of the group gathered inside.

In the driver’s seat, Sniper sat serious and focused, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Behind him, crammed into the van’s tight space, were the members of the self-defense club. Several wore balaclavas covering half their faces. Others had darkened their faces with soot or black eyeliner. One of them held a carton of rotten eggs.

Heavy was in the back, wedged between a fidgety Scout and a Demoman who had already opened another bottle. But his attention wasn’t on them.

Heavy’s eyes were fixed on the front passenger seat.

There sat Medic.

The German sat with his back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched. His gaze was locked on the road ahead, as if he meant to burn through it with the force of his hatred. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He was just there, silently boiling. The glow of the streetlights washed over him in intervals, casting ghostly shadows across his face. A cold sneer had settled on his expression like a mask. One Heavy no longer fully recognized.

The Russian swallowed hard and looked down. His hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white from pressure. He hesitated. He hesitated a lot. Not just because of what they were about to do... but because of what it said about them, about Medic, and about himself.

This isn’t justice... it’s something else.

But he said nothing. He just let the van keep rolling forward, under the shadow of twisted trees, toward Mark’s house. Toward the night. Toward revenge.

And for a moment, Heavy wished the road would never end.

...

Maybe, just maybe... the boys weren’t exactly experts in the art of revenge.

What was meant to be a night of poetic fury, of justice in their own hands, of rage turned into action... ended up looking more like a messy sleepover in the yard of some random suburb.

Sniper, with all the seriousness of a sniper in the middle of a war, carefully took aim... only to throw eggs with the precision of a child with impaired motor skills. Some hit the front of the house, leaving yellow, dripping stains that mixed with the white plaster of the wall. But most of the projectiles fell on the porch, bounced off the railings, or simply exploded on the ground with a pathetic splosh.

Pyro, wrapped in his usual chaotic enthusiasm, spun in place, tossing rolls of toilet paper into the air like streamers in a parade. But most didn’t even reach the branches of the trees. They ended up scattered in the bushes, tangled in the rose bushes, or just flattened on the sidewalk. Engie tried to help, but his aim was just as awful. Out of ten rolls thrown, maybe one would awkwardly snag in the branches, dangling limply in the breeze.

Spy, ever refined, threw tomatoes with almost theatrical grace. But his expression of irritation grew with every tomato that bounced off the door without even a hint of drama. “Damn solid oak door,” he muttered under his breath, lighting another cigarette with pulp-stained fingers.

Demoman, for his part, had decided to get the plants drunk. Literally. With every step, he opened a bottle of Scrumpy and poured its contents over the rose bushes, the hydrangeas, even a hanging pot with a decorative pumpkin. He mumbled something about “symbolism of botanical decay” as he swayed slightly.

The whole scene, from a distance, looked more like a school parody than any real threat. A group of teenagers with revolutionary spirit and the coordination of a drunken puppet show.

On the opposite sidewalk, Scout and Heavy watched in complete silence.

Scout had his arms crossed, leaning against a streetlight pole. His expression was pure disappointment. The kind of disappointment you feel when you're expecting a fire and all you get is a campfire that won’t light.

“I think... I’ll go help Medic with the lookout,” Heavy muttered, taking a step toward the street without taking his eyes off the disaster.

Scout nodded with a tired grimace.

“Yeah, don’t get distracted. Wouldn’t want us getting fined two bucks,” he said with dry sarcasm, kicking a roll of toilet paper that had rolled to his feet.

Heavy didn’t answer. He just turned and crossed the street in heavy, slow steps, his silhouette darkened by the flickering light of the nearest lamppost.

Sniper’s van was parked a few houses down, half hidden between a twisted tree and a garbage container. From the outside, it looked empty, but Heavy knew Medic was in there. He could feel it. He just knew.

He climbed the three side steps, opened the driver’s door carefully, and sat down without a sound.

Medic didn’t react right away. He was there in the passenger seat, sitting upright, hands resting on his legs and eyes fixed on some point ahead of him, beyond the dirty windshield. His brow was no longer furrowed, and his lips weren’t clenched. Just an empty expression, a deep exhaustion, the kind that doesn’t come from the body, but from the soul.

“I thought you might want some company,” Heavy said softly, as if afraid to break something fragile.

Medic turned his head slightly, not fully, just enough to show he’d heard him.

“Thanks,” he murmured, barely audible. His voice carried a dragging sadness, a melancholy that tangled with every word.

They both looked ahead. From that distance, the sight of their friends looked even more ridiculous. Sniper was now on top of the fence, throwing eggs from above with a war cry that sounded like something from a low-budget video game. Pyro danced through the bushes covered in toilet paper, like an amateur ghost. Spy tossed a tomato half-heartedly, and Demoman seemed to be trying to water a mailbox.

“It’s nice that everyone’s here… vandalizing Mark’s house,” Heavy tried to joke. His voice carried a genuine warmth, but it was clear he was trying to lighten the mood.

Medic looked out the window, sighing a little harder. His face, silhouetted against the light, looked paler, younger, almost fragile.

“I guess it is…”

Silence.

“So how are you?” Heavy asked at last. It wasn’t a casual question. It was a rope thrown to someone drowning.

Medic clicked his tongue, looked down, and clenched his fists. Then, with a nervous gesture, he ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly.

“I… ugh… feel like opening both of you up and implanting baboon wombs in you,” he blurted out, his voice shaking with anger. And as quickly as he said it, he went quiet, as if regretting his very existence. He blushed violently, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so angry I just say stupid things. Don’t listen to me…”

Heavy shook his head gently.

“It’s not stupid. It’s just you talking… and whatever you say, at least to me, isn’t stupid,” he said firmly, looking at him from the side. Then he gave a faint smile. “Though the baboon womb thing is… very specific.”

Medic let out a nervous laugh, a small chuckle, like a breath caught between his lips. He raised his head, cheeks still burning.

“I read an article about the viability of genetic modification… about how baboon wombs could be used for gestation experiments. You know… in humans. But… forget it,” he added quickly, lowering his gaze, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re the first person who doesn’t get upset when I talk about this stuff. Everyone else says it’s weird. That it’s disgusting.”

Heavy looked at him with something that wasn’t admiration, nor casual affection. It was a deep, raw, sincere warmth.

“I guess it’s because it’s you. And nothing about you is bad… or disgusting,” he murmured timidly, but without hesitation. As if those words had been burning in his chest for weeks.

Medic looked at him in silence. The German’s eyes were wide, shining, open like someone had just brushed his soul without warning. His blush reached all the way to his ears, and for the first time that night, there was no rage, no bitterness, no sadness. Only vulnerability.

And Heavy, without knowing exactly how or why, felt relieved.

For a moment, the world stopped spinning.

For a moment, the only thing that mattered was inside that minivan, under the flickering light of a dying streetlamp.

And Sniper’s shouts celebrating a “perfect shot at the mailbox” didn’t sound so ridiculous after all.

“Alright, guys. Enough revenge for one night. We better go,” Scout shouted, raising his voice above the soft crunch of paper, eggs, and muttered curses. His tone wasn’t one of authority —it never had been— but of someone who, after seeing a mess that smelled like raw yolk, decided the circus had gone on long enough.

The club members gradually stopped, like a group of teenagers coming out of a trance. One by one, they moved away from Mark’s yard, dropping whatever they were holding, shrugging, muttering excuses or unfinished sentences. Their feet crunched over the battered grass and scattered eggshells as Scout gathered them like a tired shepherd with a flock of deranged sheep.

“We still got a lot of eggs… and toilet paper,” Engie protested in a hoarse voice, carrying several rolls under one arm, which Pyro held with tenderness like they were fluffy little cotton puppies.

"Meh. Maybe they can donate them or something. I don’t know. It’s getting late," Scout huffed, turning around with a mix of annoyance and resignation. His eyes scanned the disorganized lineup of the group —Sniper, Spy, Demoman, Pyro, Engie... Heavy and Medic were still in the van...— and then he froze.

He counted again.

"Wait a second..." he muttered with growing panic, frowning. "Where the hell is Soldier?"

Before anyone could answer, a sharp, guttural whistling tore through the night. It wasn’t human — no, it was something mechanical, cutting, visceral. Like the devil himself inhaling before breathing fire.

And then, hell broke loose.

From a distance —and from inside the van— a deafening BOOM shattered the night, shaking the windows. It was like the world had split open, and fire poured out of its wound. The ground vibrated. A wave of heat hit the nearest trees. And within seconds, an orange glow lit up the entire street like a flare on a moonless night.

...

Inside the van, things had been... different. Very different.

The air was thick. Heavy. Every second dripped with tension — not the aggressive kind, but the one that coils in your gut and makes you forget how to breathe. Medic and Heavy were very close. Too close.

The German had turned in his seat. He was staring, with those sharp, glowing eyes like scalpels dipped in honey. There was something else in them. Something new. Something that burned more than the Scrumpy, more than the heat, more than the fire. It was desire, yes, but also gratitude, nervousness... and fear.

Heavy was lost.

His gaze followed the line of Medic’s jaw, his thin lips, the soft curve of his neck. Both their eyes flickered like fireflies trapped in a bottle. The van felt small. Hot. Tight. Heavy’s hands trembled slightly on his lap.

Then Medic leaned in.

It was slow. Intentional. An act of pure courage and pure impulse. Their faces were just inches apart. Their noses brushed. The world blurred around them. The chaos outside, the distant lights, the smell of rotten eggs — none of it mattered. It was just the two of them.

And just as their lips were about to meet—

KA-BOOOOOOOM.

The explosion yanked them out of that bubble like a punch from heaven. Both jumped in their seats, gasping, turning in horror toward the glow spreading down the street like the dawn of the apocalypse.

Mark’s car was on fire. Burning like a funeral pyre. Huge flames burst from the open hood, and a tire was still spinning as it melted. The blast had been so intense that a distant car alarm went off, and the lights in several nearby houses flicked on instantly.

"WHAT THE HELL, SOLDIER?!"

Scout shouted with a mixture of panic and pure fury. He was beside himself, arms raised, staring wide-eyed at Soldier, who still had a damn rocket launcher slung over his shoulder like it was a harmless backpack. He was smiling. Like he had just made a joke only he understood.

The others watched frozen. Even Spy dropped his cigarette. Sniper slightly recoiled. Pyro started laughing, a muffled, confused chuckle behind his mask.

And that’s when the real panic began.

“Run, run, run, run, everyone get in the car!” Scout yelled, waving his arms.

The silhouettes scrambled like rats fleeing a fire. The minivan doors were thrown open violently. Engie stumbled, Pyro rolled like a sack of flour, Demoman shouted something about “they’re going to hang us in the public square!” and Spy flopped into the back seat without any dignity.

Heavy lunged to the back, giving up his front seat to Sniper, who cursed under his breath while trying to fit the key into the lock with trembling hands.

“Hurry, hurry, HURRY!” Scout shouted from the middle of the chaos as flames roared behind them.

Soldier was last in. Calm. Serene. Like he had just come back from a walk. He sat down, buckled up, and said in a monotone voice:

“Target neutralized.”

Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. Because he was.

“We’re going to prison, you damn lunatic!” Scout yelled, pounding the seatback.

The engine screamed. Coughing. Then roared like a beast. The minivan backed up, knocking over a trash can, screeching around the corner.

The sirens came soon after. In the distance, the wail of a patrol car. Then the buzz of a fire truck. Red and blue lights reflecting in the rearview mirrors. The inevitable song of consequences.

Inside the vehicle, everyone was shouting, sweating, blaming each other, praying. Scout scolded Soldier desperately. Spy smoked like a condemned man. Pyro laughed. Medic clung to his seat. And Heavy... Heavy just watched.

Not out of fear.

But because, even though the night was on fire, and jail seemed closer than ever...

...he could still feel Medic’s lips’ warmth lingering in the air.

...

A new school day began with a bitter mix of anxiety and routine. The sky was covered in ash-gray clouds, as if the sun itself refused to shine after the night of chaos. The bell rang with its typical metallic, shrill tone, dragging along a tide of students flowing out of classrooms like a human wave. Backpacks bumped, laughter echoed off the walls, doors creaked shut violently, and the impatient footsteps filled the halls.

Amid that messy crowd, Heavy stood in front of his locker, forehead slightly bowed, thick hands pulling out a couple of crumpled books and a folder with bent edges. His face was a mask of neutrality, but his eyes held that restless gleam, the one that appears when you sleep little and think too much. Scout, meanwhile, was leaning against the adjacent wall, arms crossed, backpack hanging off one shoulder, and an expression of pure bitterness on his face.

“Stop thinking about that,” Heavy murmured without looking at him, his voice deep and dry like gravel dragged by the wind.

Scout clicked his tongue in annoyance. He had deep dark circles under his eyes that he didn’t bother hiding, and his face was pale, almost greenish, like someone who had been walking on broken glass for days without rest.

“You say it like it’s so easy,” Scout hissed through clenched teeth. He rubbed his face with both hands, as if he could peel away the physical and emotional exhaustion. “Do you know what it’s like to sleep with the panic that they’ll arrest you for school terrorism, Heavy? That your mom wakes you up in the middle of the night because she heard a siren? I have nightmares about flames! This whole club thing is getting out of hand, man. Maybe… we should take a break. I don’t know. At least dial it down a bit.”

Heavy slammed the locker shut with a sharp bang, the sound echoing through the empty rows of lockers. He finally looked at Scout, that firm, hard gaze of someone who doesn’t back down even though they’re falling apart inside.

“We’re not going to do it. Not now, especially. Weren’t you the one begging to create it? The one who said you wanted to stop being the school clown? Now you back out because there’s real pressure?”

Scout glared at him, but there was something more than anger in his eyes. There was doubt. Something personal.

“Since that Herbert started paying attention to you, you’ve been unbearable,” Scout muttered, frowning. His tone was sharp, cutting. “What do you want to get out of sticking with this club, huh? A date? A thank-you kiss? Or just to be seen as more than the gorilla who throws punches?”

Heavy lowered his gaze for a moment, just to keep Scout from seeing the discomfort washing over him. He couldn’t say yes. That he had invited Medic to his house under the excuse of studying, of talking, of… just hanging out. A ridiculous excuse that made his stomach turn. Heavy didn’t know what he expected from that visit, but he did know he was clinging to it like a castaway to a piece of driftwood.

Any reason he gave Scout would sound fake. And deep down, it was. He was sticking with the club out of selfishness. Out of cowardice too. Because if he quit the club, maybe he’d lose Medic too.

So he said nothing.

He just clenched his jaw and held back the truth.

But then, just as the silence between them grew suffocating, a voice slid in beside them like a snake slipping under a door.

“Hello, boys,” Kiki sang with that poisoned sweetness that always hid claws behind every word. She was leaning against the opposite lockers, arms crossed, with a smile that screamed “danger” more than sympathy.

She wore her uniform with offensive elegance, all perfectly tailored and neat, as if she hadn’t spent the entire night watching the world fall apart. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail that whipped like a lash every time she took a step. She approached with that confident, feline stride, unhurried, like the whole hallway belonged to her.

“What a fireworks show last night,” she said with a charming giggle. “I didn’t know you threw surprise parties for ex-boyfriends.”

Scout clenched his fists. Heavy kept a serious, unyielding expression, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Russian scoffed, his voice low, thick, heavy with restrained contempt. He couldn’t afford to falter.

Kiki stepped a little closer, tilting her head as if examining a curious creature in a zoo. Her eyes narrowed mischievously, but her smile stayed fixed, venomous.

“Of course you don’t know,” she murmured, dragging out the words like she was savoring them. “Fine. Anyway, Mark needed a new car... so don’t worry.” Her tone was as indulgent as it was insulting. She looked Heavy up and down, as if granting him permission to exist.

Heavy swallowed discreetly. He tried not to react. But she wouldn’t stop there.

Kiki took another step, slamming one of her small hands against the lockers right next to Heavy’s face. Now they were dangerously close. She looked at him with that aggressive calm, as if measuring exactly how much pressure she could put on him before breaking him.

“What’s wrong, Heavy? You’re acting weird,” she murmured with fake tenderness, leaning in just enough for only him to hear the real venom in her words.

And then she whispered, right in his ear, like casting a curse:

“Your club is over. Understand?”

Her eyes shone. It wasn’t an empty threat. It was a promise.

Then she walked away with the same swaying hips she’d arrived with, leaving behind a trail of sweet perfume and emotional rot.

Scout said nothing. He just watched with a mix of distrust and fear.

Heavy, on the other hand, stood frozen. As if the wall had stuck to his back. As if Kiki’s words had dug into his neck like sharp nails.

And for the first time in days, he seriously thought maybe they were right.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Her face was fucked up and my hands were bloody
We were in the playground, things were getting muddy
The teacher broke us up after I broke her
And my one true love called me a monster

Mommy, why do I feel sad?
Should I give him away or feel this bad?
No, no, no, don't you choke
Daddy chimed in: Go for the throat
---
"Class Fight" Song By Melanie Martinez

“Some of us clearly have a very different idea of what revenge means,” Scout muttered, barely hiding his sarcasm, arms crossed in front of the self-defense club.

The boy’s voice echoed through the hollow walls of the empty gym, bouncing off the gray surfaces with bitter undertones. Outside, lunch went on as usual: laughter, conversations, the constant hum of a school breathing through its daily routine. But inside the gym, the air was thick, heavy with guilt and anxiety. They had thrown together an emergency meeting, far from eyes and ears that might report anything to Miss Pauling or, worse, Principal Redmond.

The light coming in through the small rectangular windows fell at an angle across the floor, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch their discouragement. The kids were sitting in a circle on exercise mats and broken benches, some standing, others leaning against the wall, like they were waiting for a verdict.

“But if we stay calm… and keep our mouths shut… we’ll be fine,” Scout tried to reassure them, with a voice that sounded neither calm nor sure. They looked at him like he still held some moral authority, but panic was starting to eat away at his words, and the sweat on his forehead betrayed him.

The silence that followed was crushing.

Heavy stood next to him, arms crossed, still as a statue, his eyes fixed on Medic, who sat on a rolled-up mat, knees together, shoulders slightly hunched, wearing an expression that wasn’t exactly fear… but wasn’t indifference either. It was resignation, a mix of defeat and pride, like someone who had already accepted his fate and could only face it with his head held high.

“They’re going to shut us down… aren’t they?” Engie asked quietly, eyes on the floor. His old cap was in his hands, twisting it with his fingers as if wringing out the words he couldn’t say.

Scout opened his mouth but only gave a nervous huff. He didn’t know what to say. The truth caught in his throat, and deep down he knew: it was very likely. Very, very likely.

“Of course not,” he tried to say with a crooked smile. “I mean, we don’t know anything yet, right? Maybe they didn’t even find out…”

But the words hung in the air. No one caught them. No one believed them.

A silent acceptance started to seep in. Like a dark wave crawling under their skin, chilling their bones.

“Principal Redmond will believe whatever Kiki says,” Spy muttered from the darkest corner of the gym. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over, his tenth cigarette of the day hanging from his lips with indifference. A thin column of smoke rose slowly, as if even the tobacco had given up.

“I don’t see how we recover from this.”

“It’s been an honor bleeding with you…” said Sniper, raising his voice with a pained but dignified smile, like a wounded soldier saying goodbye in the trenches.

The others looked at him silently and, one by one, started to nod. They gave him pats on the shoulder, like they were already at their own funeral. Like the club was already dead and all that was left was to give it a proper burial.

“Listen…” Scout tried to intervene, raising his hands in desperation. “Let’s not say goodbye so fast. We’re still here! Nothing’s happened yet! No letters, no expulsions, not even a damn warning!”

But his voice no longer carried the same weight. It sounded like a dry leaf cracking under a boot.

While everyone murmured memories of the club, their glories and screw-ups, Heavy remained silent, trapped in his own thoughts. He didn’t hear the jokes, didn’t laugh with the others. He just watched. Medic, with his chin lifted, his eyes red —not from crying, but from exhaustion and bottled-up rage. Scout didn’t notice, but Heavy did.

“I’ll miss you all… but at least we went out with a bang,” said Demoman, raising his bottle of Scrumpy in a funeral-like toast. Everyone clapped, celebrating the memory as if keeping it alive for just a little longer by honoring it.

“Freakin’ madness, man!” Engie blurted out between nervous laughter. “That fire everywhere, and Soldier with that rocket launcher, and Pyro screaming like a maniac, and the car blowing up like we were in Vietnam…”

Laughter spread like a controlled blaze. They all needed it. To laugh, even in the middle of the disaster.

“Could you all calm down for once?” Scout barked, throwing his hands toward the ceiling, out of patience. “This club is not shutting down! Not yet! Not if we can do something! Heavy, say something, please!”

But Heavy didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn.

Scout looked at him with a mix of pleading and frustration. It was like talking to a stone. But Heavy... Heavy couldn’t speak. His eyes were locked on the German, and on how that face, normally firm and calculated, now looked so human, so vulnerable. Like seeing a soldier without his coat, without his scalpel, without his manic smile. Just a boy.

Then Medic spoke.

“No matter what happens,” he said quietly, slowly, as if choosing every word with surgical precision, “this club made me feel… like myself for the first time. And not be ashamed of it.”

His words fell over everyone like a veil. Slowly, the chatter stopped. Even Pyro, who had been drawing shapes on the floor with a lighter, froze his hand. They were all staring at him. But he only looked at Heavy.

The Russian felt a blow to the chest. Medic looked at him with tenderness. With pride. But also with resignation. Like he was thanking him for everything… and also saying goodbye.

Heavy lowered his gaze.

Scout scoffed. He rubbed his face with both hands, like trying to contain a storm.

“Damn it, you guys…” he finally spat, pinching the bridge of his nose, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. “You always have to make everything so emotional, don’t you? I’m trying to save the club and you turn this into a damn farewell movie.”

No one answered.

“For the love of America, Scout. Just because you didn’t get what you wanted from the club doesn’t mean others didn’t get anything either.”

Soldier’s voice rang through the gym like a war trumpet, echoing off the hollow walls like a military command. His face was tense, brows furrowed and jaw clenched, his boots thudding as he stood from the metal bleachers. His hand was raised, as if about to declare a new Constitution. But he was just a teenager, frustrated and hurt.

Scout looked at him with irritation. He turned slowly toward him, like a cat ready to pounce, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and that mocking grin already forming on his face.

“Good for you, Soldier,” he spat with that sharp smile he used when he wanted to cut deep. “Glad you turned this into your personal therapy session. Congrats! You accomplished so much.”

Scout’s voice was laced with venom. The rest of the club felt it. Like an electric shock slithering through the circle, tensing their bodies, making shoulders hunch and eyes drop. It was a fight, and no one wanted to be caught in the middle.

Soldier straightened stiffly, crossing his arms with almost ridiculous solemnity, his half-torn jacket crackling as he moved. He stared at Scout with tightly pressed lips, and behind that expression was a restrained rage no one had noticed before. A rage with history.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied gravely. “I worked so you all could lead this club. I protected it, I looked after it. And you—”

“You?” Scout let out a dry laugh. “You really think you’re the reason this club was created? Please.”

Scout’s finger pointed, accusatory, directly at Soldier’s chest, who didn’t move an inch. He just looked at him with an expression that wasn’t anger anymore. It was disappointment. Pure disappointment. And that look hit deeper than Scout expected, even through his sarcasm.

The tension became unbearable. No one spoke. No one moved. Just glances bouncing from Scout to Soldier, from Soldier to Heavy, and from Heavy to Medic… Now he watched everything with the surgical focus of someone about to intervene in a hemorrhage.

Heavy stepped forward. “We need to calm down…” he murmured, almost pleading. But his voice, so deep and heavy, found no solid ground. It was like speaking to a battlefield with an olive branch in hand.

“Not reason,” Soldier replied in a lower, but far more threatening voice. “But if you want… I can tell everyone what the real reason was.”

It was like throwing lit dynamite into a powder storage.

The silence shifted in nature. It wasn’t tension anymore. It was fear. It was uncertainty. Heads turned, brows furrowed, and the weight of everyone’s stares crashed down on Scout and Heavy like a block of concrete.

Heavy felt his stomach twist into a knot. No… not like this. Not now. Not in front of Medic. He felt the German’s gaze pierce through him, not with hatred, but with a doubt that hurt more than any shouting. A crack.

“Soldier, calm down,” Heavy asked again, heart pounding in his chest. But the plea was ignored.

“You’re a damn ungrateful bastard,” Scout hissed, face flushed. “You’re lucky we even let you join.”

But Soldier didn’t shrink back anymore. He didn’t retreat. He looked at Scout with a dangerous steadiness, a decision that had been made long ago.

“Scout, you and Heavy are both liars.”

And there. That was when everything broke.

The words hung in the air like a knife floating above the group. The club members stopped breathing. The sentence stayed tattooed in the air. Lie. Betrayal. Doubt.

“Yeah, well…” Scout started, but his voice had lost its strength. There was no audience left to validate him. Only his own anger. “You don’t have any friends. And your dad’s a drunk who hates you. So…”

A different kind of silence fell. One more cruel. More personal.

No one laughed. No one cheered.

Soldier opened his mouth, but said nothing. Not because he lacked words. But because there was something in his throat choking him. An old pain, buried deep in his bones. He just nodded slowly, like someone accepting a sentence, and picked up his backpack with slow, dignified movements. Not a word more.

He walked toward the gym’s exit without looking at anyone. No one stopped him. No one hugged him. No one had the courage to say “I’m sorry.”

“So I guess the meeting’s over?” Engie asked in a quiet voice.

…

Outside, the sun beat down hard on the concrete. The blue sky felt cruel in its brightness. Soldier walked quickly, teeth clenched and cheeks damp, even though he was doing everything in his power to hide it. He wiped his eyes with the dirty sleeves of his jacket, but the knot in his chest wouldn’t go away.

And then… a shadow crossed his path.

“Well, well, little soldier.”

Kiki.

There she was. Sharp as a freshly honed blade. Her hair perfectly styled, her uniform neatly pressed, that smile of someone who’s already won the war before the enemy even knows they’re losing.

She approached slowly, with graceful steps, the sound of her shoes echoing mockingly. Soldier stopped, but not by choice. His body did it on its own. As if some instinct told him he couldn’t move forward without facing the snake head-on.

“I saw you come out of there. Looked like things got intense,” Kiki said, faking concern. But in her eyes danced a dark satisfaction.

“What do you want?” Soldier growled, his voice cracking. He tried to sound firm, but his fingers were trembling.

“Just to help.” Her voice was like poisoned honey. “I can help you… if you tell me everything you know about that club. Or better yet… about how it really started.”

Soldier looked at her. For a second—a fleeting instant—he thought about spitting in her face. About turning his back. But he also remembered Scout’s look, the words that shattered him, the doubt in his teammates’ eyes, the betrayal in Heavy’s voice.

And he said nothing.

He just stood there, staring at Kiki... and considering.

...

Classes were over, and Heavy felt his stomach twist with an impossible mix of anxiety and expectation. The air tasted metallic, like he could taste the nerves in his own throat. His heart wasn’t beating—it was hammering. His palms were damp, his chest tight, and for some reason, every step he took inside his own house felt foreign, like he was trespassing in forbidden territory.

Because Medic was there. In his room. In his private, intimate space, full of secrets, familiar smells, and traces of a life he had never wanted to show anyone. And yet, there he was. Sitting on his bed, observing everything as if it were a piece of art, with genuine curiosity and not a trace of judgment.

Heavy’s mother wouldn’t be home until after midnight. Double shift. And his younger sisters—the three who usually stormed into his room on Saturday mornings with laughter, pillows, and butter cookies—were away at a Girl Scouts sleepover. They wouldn’t be back until the next afternoon. That left his house—his entire world—completely alone. Just for them.

Solitude wasn’t supposed to feel like this. So hot. So vulnerable.

Heavy swallowed hard, trying to calm the heat rising from his neck to his face. The warmth wasn’t from the outside; it came from within. A fire lit by the nearness of someone he wanted more than he had ever dared to imagine.

Medic wandered slowly around the room, fingertips brushing the edges of objects as if he were reading their stories. He touched the corners of shelves, flipped through a book without pulling it all the way out, examined the photos on the wall, the folded notes stuck between books. His gaze was sharp, but also gentle, like Heavy wasn’t just another boy, but a mystery worth unraveling.

Meanwhile, Heavy watched him with his eyes—and with his body too. He moved behind him like a nervous shadow, silently collecting anything he didn’t want the German to see. In one swift, clumsy motion, he snatched a literary collage off his desk. It had quotes from authors he barely understood and, in the center, a name that gave him away. “Herbert Ludwig,” written in cut-out block letters, decorated with hearts, scalpel blades, and red ink. He stuffed it under some books in one shaky move, heart pounding like he’d just been caught stealing.

“No way, is this a leather jacket?” Medic suddenly exclaimed, his voice bouncing off the walls and filling the whole room. He had found an old jacket draped over the desk chair. He lifted it in his hands like it was some mythical garment.

“I always wanted one,” he said with a kind of childish excitement. “But my father says only bums and delinquents wear them.”

Heavy swallowed hard. “If you want, I can let you borrow it, I mean…” he replied, voice deep but cracking from nerves. Seeing Medic touch something of his—something so personal—made his chest vibrate. The image of the German wearing that jacket, walking through school in it, sent a short circuit through his brain.

But Medic just smiled and placed it back where it was, with a softness that felt almost intentional.

Then, without saying anything else, he sat on the bed.

And the world stopped.

Heavy did too, frozen at the sight of Medic there, so out of place and yet so at ease, hands on his knees, legs dangling slightly off the edge of the mattress. The German looked uncomfortable, but not because he was there... because he was so close. So close to him.

“Wow,” Medic muttered with a small laugh, adjusting his glasses with a trembling finger. “This is awkward…”

Heavy didn’t know what to say. He had no words. He had thoughts, plenty of them. Scattered words. Broken ideas. He wanted to beg him not to leave, not to change his mind. He wanted to tell him something funny, or at least offer him a drink or tell him he could touch anything he wanted. But he didn’t even manage to open his mouth.

Because Medic simply leaned on his shoulder.

A soft gesture. Small. Intimate.

And yet, for Heavy, it was like a silent explosion.

His breath caught. He could feel the light weight of Medic’s head, the subtle scent of his hair, the brush of his skin against the fabric of his shirt. And before he could escape the moment, the German spoke.

“But strangely… it’s so comfortable being with you.”

That was when Heavy looked down. And at that exact moment, Medic looked up.

And all the pieces of the world aligned.

There were no outside voices. No judgment, no parents, no noisy hallways. No Scout mocking them or Kiki lurking like a poisonous shadow. There were only the two of them, breathing the same air, sharing a silence that said more than any words ever could.

And they kissed.

It was clumsy, tender, nervous. Medic’s lips were fragile, damp, soft. Like thin paper, so delicate that Heavy was afraid to break them. The kiss was slow, chaste, more a collision of insecurities than passions. But it was real. And for them, it meant everything.

They pulled apart.

Just a few centimeters.

And Heavy saw him. Medic. Just as he was. Face flushed, glasses crooked on his nose, hair slightly tousled and a bead of sweat trailing down his cheek. A raw, honest, and precious version of the boy he thought he knew.

And without saying a word, Medic leaned in again, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him into another kiss.

This one deeper. More urgent. It wasn’t a cry of desire; it was a need. A shared surrender. Their mouths opened. Their breaths mingled. Saliva became a bridge between them, an invisible thread tying them together as if they were one.

Medic climbed onto him, moving with nervous energy but also with determination. His knees settled on either side of Heavy’s hips, and the Russian barely managed to contain the trembling in his arms. His body responded on instinct—warm, firm, wanting… but his mind was still caught in disbelief.

They kept kissing, now lying down with Medic on top, their bodies aligned, their hearts racing in parallel. The mattress creaked softly under their weight, the room smelled of wood, cheap perfume, and smoke from past days.

And yet, everything was perfect.

Perfect in its imperfection. Perfect for what it meant. For what it broke. For what it built.

And for the first time, Heavy stopped being afraid.

...

The next day had come with the deceptive softness of a dream. Everything was so hazy and soft around the edges, like one of those movies you watch half asleep, unsure if what’s happening is real or a fantasy fed by desire, anxiety, and insomnia. Heavy didn’t exactly know when he had stopped kissing Medic. He didn’t remember clearly if he had walked him to the door or if, after their last lip touch, he had simply vanished from the room like vapor in the air. He only knew he woke up in his bed, the sheets still messy and Medic’s scent still clinging to his shirt.

He hadn’t dreamed. That was clear. His body still trembled remembering it. The German’s lips, the way their hips had fit together, the soft gasp in his ear. It was real. It was his.

And now, the real world was dragging him again. Pushing him roughly onto the cold floor. The alarm went off, he dressed as best he could, ate breakfast awkwardly, and walked to school as if floating. As if his body moved on its own while his mind stayed trapped in that room, on that bed, in that moment where everything had changed.

It was Friday, and the first class had been canceled. The game against BLU High would take place that weekend, and as part of the preparation (and to fuel school spirit) all the students had been gathered in the gym for a sort of general assembly. Shouts, drums, loud music, and many colors. A school ceremony dressed as war, as if chanting the team’s names was as important as final exams.

Heavy entered without a word. No energy to pretend he cared. The noise hit him like a wave, but he just walked through the crowd, his gaze fixed nowhere. He sat in the bleachers, next to Scout, almost out of habit, as if his body knew where to go before his mind fully connected.

Scout was already there. Tired, with dark circles under eyes that were usually full of sarcasm and energy. He had his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze downcast, completely oblivious to the drums beginning to mark a martial rhythm. He seemed distant from everything, as if still trapped in the conversation with Soldier from the day before. As if he couldn’t let go of that guilt eating him from within.

Heavy watched him for a moment, lips pressed together. He also felt something among them cracking. And it wasn’t just Kiki’s fault, or Mark’s car, or the self-defense club. There was something more. Something none of them wanted to say.

“I need to tell you something,” Heavy finally murmured, lowering his voice as if confessing a crime.

Scout barely moved. He clicked his tongue, still looking at the floor. “I’m listening,” he answered without enthusiasm, barely raising his voice over the pounding drums.

Heavy took a deep breath. His mind spun, trying to find the exact words. But in the end, what came out was so rough, so abrupt and sincere, it even surprised him.

“I think... how do gay guys lose their virginity?”

Scout lifted his head as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown on him. His eyes went wide, and for a moment he stayed silent, processing what he had just heard. Then, very slowly, he turned his head toward him, looking at him with a mix of disbelief, surprise... and suppressed laughter.

“You and Medic...?” he murmured, his voice trembling with the effort to hold back a laugh.

Heavy, blushing to his ears, said nothing. He just nodded. Once. Slowly. With the firmness of someone accepting a truth they can no longer hide.

And just then, as if the universe played the perfect timing, Medic appeared.

He sat beside Heavy silently, with that calm that characterized him when he wasn’t a whirlwind of sarcasm and scalpels. And without a word, without even looking at Scout, he took Heavy’s hand in his and intertwined their fingers.

Scout looked at them, and for the first time in a long while, didn’t make a sarcastic comment. He just stared, his lips slightly curved, as if he didn’t know whether to smile or cry. Maybe a bit of both. A sad pride. A silent “you deserve this.”

The moment was interrupted when the drums exploded louder, and music filled the gym.

"Make some noise for the future victory of RED High with our cheerleaders!" Mark shouted from the center of the stage. He wore his football uniform, perfectly pressed, his hair slicked back, and that plastic smile he loved to show.

And there she was. Kiki.

Jumping, spinning, dancing among the other cheerleaders with an almost supernatural grace. Her pom-poms sparkled like fire under the gym lights. Her body moved with millimeter precision, as if every step, every jump, was rehearsed not just to look good... but to dominate.

Heavy couldn’t stop watching her.

Not out of admiration. But out of instinct. Because something wasn’t right.

And then it happened. For a split second, their eyes met. And Kiki, still spinning with pom-poms in the air, winked at him. Not a flirty wink. Not a playful one. It was a sharp gesture like a knife. A curved, predatory smile that spoke without words.

Heavy swallowed hard. Because he understood.

Kiki was planning something. Something big. Something that would surely make that fragile peace between them crumble like a house of cards.

The cheerleaders’ choreography ended in an explosion of energy and sequins, with perfectly synchronized jumps, skirts waving in time with the blaring music, and a shower of confetti still floating in the air as the echo of the last notes faded in the vast gym lit by artificial lights. The crowd cheered enthusiastically, shouts and whistles echoing against the walls, creating a vibrant atmosphere like that of a coliseum before a macabre show.

At the center of the improvised stage, Kiki grabbed the microphone. She was still panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her face shining with sweat and makeup, but the excitement did not escape her red-painted lips. She smiled like a game show host, a beauty queen just crowned, with a dangerously bright spark in her eyes.

“Good morning everyone!” she exclaimed in a syrupy voice, projecting as if she were in front of a TV camera and not hundreds of half-bored students at another assembly. “Recently, some very exciting things have happened at school.”

The applause was immediate, like a conditioned reaction. Students from all grades cheered her name, clapped, some even made heart signs with their hands. But despite all that sugary sweetness coming from her mouth, there was something behind that snow-white smile: a shadow, a dark crack, barely noticeable to the attentive. Her gaze, sharp like a bird of prey’s, dripped with malice.

“How many of you have heard about the little self-defense club?” she asked, feigning curiosity.

The air thickened. Suddenly, all eyes—dozens of them—turned like waves of a tide, focusing on two figures seated in the crowd: Heavy and Scout. The pressure from those pupils, some mocking, others intrigued or outright hostile, fell on them like a bucket of ice water. Scout shrank in his seat, his shoulders tense, while Heavy held his posture, but his dark eyes shone with a flicker of discomfort, as if he already knew they were about to be exposed.

“Well, we have a surprise for you,” Kiki announced, her voice like honey poured on a wound. “Let’s see... Where’s Soldier? Soldier? Can you come down?”

The name struck like lightning in the tense silence. Soldier, who was hunched over in one of the last seats on the bleachers, straightened up as if shot. Surprise overtook him, and with it came nervousness. He walked with military rigidity, his back straight as a pole, his hands tense at his sides, his boots echoing on the floor like war drums. The students’ ovations surrounded him but didn’t encourage him. On the contrary, he seemed to shrink more and more with each step toward the gym’s center, where the spotlight trapped him like an insect in a glass jar.

“Soldier is one of the founders of the self-defense club,” Kiki said theatrically, as if introducing the star of an action movie. Some students began to whistle, others laughed, and someone shouted his name mockingly. Scout frowned, confused. Heavy pressed his lips together. Neither seemed to understand why Soldier was involved... nor why he was acting so differently from how they knew him.

"And he will teach us all what is practiced in the club... in a little fun challenge."

The word "fun" hung in the air like a poisoned hook. Kiki smiled, showing her teeth like a cartoon snake, with that kind of sweetness that burns like acid.

The noise grew. Some students began clapping along to the rhythm, while the members of the defense club raised their arms with contained energy. Demoman was the loudest, flapping his arms like he was trying to fly, shouting Soldier’s name with the enthusiasm of a religious fanatic.

Soldier reached the center of the court, and his breathing was no longer steady. He looked around with wide eyes, swallowing hard, as if each step brought him closer to a trap he could no longer escape. The crowd, from above, seemed like a single creature with a thousand expectant heads.

"Soldier will fight against..." Kiki let the silence stretch like a taut rope until all attention was absolute. "The entire RED High school team."

A chill ran through the gym.

Suddenly, the members of the RED team began advancing from the sides of the court. There were more than ten. All wearing red and black uniforms, tall, athletic, with that expression on their faces only kids who knew they were popular could wear without punishment: a mix of arrogance, contempt, and cruel amusement. They lined up in front of Soldier, one by one, shoulder to shoulder, like a wall of muscle and resentment. Some laughed, others pretended to warm up their fists, throwing provocative looks.

Soldier stepped back. He did it almost without realizing it. His body reacted before his mind. Sweat ran down his temples, and his eyes no longer sought enemies but exits. He raised his hand; his voice sounded muffled, almost childlike. "But... you said I was only going to fight Scout."

His voice trembled. The fear, real and raw, slipped into his tone. He felt it in his chest, like a fist squeezing his lungs.

"I know what you’re thinking," Kiki interjected lightly, taking control again. Her tone was soothing but empty, like a nurse speaking to a child before a painful injection. "But don’t worry. After all, Soldier did go to the self-defense club, right?"

A muffled, disguised general laughter spread like an oil stain. Some students looked at him with anticipation, others with mockery, but all with that morbid curiosity that arises when one is about to witness a massacre.

At that moment, the line between a school spectacle and public humiliation broke.

The RED team boys began to approach, surrounding Soldier like wolves sensing weakness. One took a false step toward him, then another. Soldier looked around: there was no space to run. The lights illuminated Soldier’s pale face, who no longer seemed like the same firm and authoritative boy from training. He was just a scapegoat.

A couple of freshmen, hidden in the crowd, whispered among themselves, unable to look away.

And then, the first blow fell. Like the shot that starts a race, like the signal that breaks the balance.

Soldier, in the middle of the circle of opponents, instinctively raised his fists. But his movements were slow. His body trembled.

The fight had begun. And it was not a fun challenge.

It was a hunt.

It was the first blow—dry, brutal, merciless—that brought Soldier down.

One of the RED team players, tall, burly, with a mocking smile on his face, had delivered a direct punch to his stomach. The impact was so precise it seemed to empty the air from his lungs. Soldier let out a muffled sound, almost like a wounded animal, and fell to his knees with a dull crunch. His hands supported him on the padded gym floor, his fingers trembling. His whole body curled as if trying to close in on itself, seeking a protection that did not exist.

And while Soldier tried to catch his breath, the students’ cheers covered him like a storm. Shouts, laughter, applause. Each laugh was like a sharp blade hitting his ears. The students, up in the stands, were no longer witnesses. They were judges. Executioners. Bloodthirsty. They laughed with their mouths wide open, pointing as if watching a circus scene. Kiki watched them from the stage with a radiant smile, still holding the microphone, her white teeth shining like blades under the spotlight.

But then, something happened.

Something changed inside Soldier.

It was like a spark, like a lit fuse reaching the end of its course. The humiliation, the mockery, the trap… all that invisible weight that had piled up on his shoulders for weeks, months, maybe years, exploded. An ancient, raw, visceral fury burst from the center of his chest like a volcanic roar.

With a heart-wrenching scream that echoed through the entire gym, Soldier stood up. He rose with the force of a tightly wound spring, his body drenched in sweat, his face contorted with rage. He was no longer the same nervous boy who had risen when called. Something in his gaze had broken… or been freed. With clenched teeth and wide eyes, he delivered a violent kick to the thigh of the closest player. The impact made the other stagger backward with a cry of surprise, and Soldier used that momentum to twist his torso and slam his fist into the jaw of another boy approaching.

And then the battle truly began.

An uneven fight. Chaotic. Incredible.

The spectators shifted from mocking enthusiasm to genuine amazement. Soldier, driven by pure adrenaline and bottled rage, began moving like a professional fighter. His movements were erratic but effective. He dodged blows with surprising reflexes, ducking, spinning on himself, landing precise hits with hardened knuckles. A punch to the abdomen, an elbow to the nose, a kick to the shin. One after another, the players began to retreat, confused, overwhelmed by the unexpected explosion of violence from the boy they thought was weak.

From the stands, Kiki watched petrified, the microphone trembling slightly in her hand. Her smile vanished completely. Surprise and horror painted her face as she saw one by one the RED team members begin to fall or stagger. The crowd fell silent. Only gasps, growls, and scattered cries of pain could be heard.

Scout blinked, still sitting next to Heavy, and murmured in disbelief, “Wait… Soldier is winning?”

Heavy didn’t answer. His expression was unreadable. He watched the scene as if it were a nightmare he didn’t know whether to fear or be excited by.

But that small victory couldn’t last.

Soldier wasn’t a machine. He wasn’t a superhero. He was just a furious, exhausted, and alone teenager. And fatigue inevitably came. His blows began to lose strength. His reflexes dulled. His breathing grew heavy, each breath burning in his throat. Still, he kept fighting, like a cornered animal with no other way out.

And then it happened.

A perfectly synchronized combo. A orchestrated punishment.

One of the boys bent down and delivered another sharp blow to his stomach. Soldier doubled over, spitting saliva. At the same time, another player launched a kick to his lower back that threw him forward, completely unbalancing him. And just when it seemed he was going to fall face-first, a third caught him from behind with a chokehold, squeezing with brutal force.

Soldier fell to the ground like a broken doll.

The sound of his body hitting the floor echoed throughout the gym.

He stayed there, sobbing. The pain kept him from moving. His face pressed against the floor, his teeth stained with blood, his lips split. A reddish pool began to spread beneath him, mixing with sweat and floor stains. His body trembled weakly as his lungs struggled to draw air.

The self-defense club fell silent.

Demoman was the first to stand. His eyes were wide as plates, hands clenched on his knees, as if holding back the urge to jump into the center of the gym. His expression was one of absolute horror.

And amid that silence, Kiki spoke again.

Her voice sounded clearer than ever, amplified by the microphone. But this time, there was no sweetness. Only venom.

“I know what you’re thinking…” she said, pacing back and forth on the stage like a teacher giving a cruel lesson. “How can a boy trained by a supposed gulag survivor not even defend himself against a high school football team?”

Her words fell like daggers.

“I’ll tell you why,” she continued, then pointed directly at Heavy. “The truth is Heavy was never in a Siberian gulag. No. Heavy didn’t even leave this town this summer. And according to Soldier—yes, the same one who’s now spitting blood on the floor—neither Heavy nor Scout have ever fought in their lives.”

The gym exploded with murmurs. Glances. Poisonous whispers like smoke. The crowd was no longer looking at Soldier. Now everyone was turning toward Heavy and Scout. Faces once neutral now showed disappointment, confusion, mockery. The club members seemed frozen. Medic, sitting next to the Russian, slowly turned toward Heavy. His face was a mask of betrayal. Pure pain. His gaze was like a knife, waiting for an explanation that never came. Heavy couldn’t hold his eyes. He lowered his head. He curled up, as if his seat could swallow him whole.

Soldier was still on the ground. Spitting blood, his body convulsing with difficulty. The football team surrounded him with depraved smiles, like satisfied predators.

“And you know what else?” Kiki said, her voice unfiltered now. “Heavy is a filthy homosexual who created the club just to grope boys. What’s wrong with you all? You’re a disgrace. I actually supported you.”

The blow was crueller than any punch.

Heavy slowly lifted his head. Scout clenched his fists. The humiliation was unbearable, it felt like the gym air had thickened, like the ceiling was closing in on them.

And then, as if none of that was enough, Mark calmly stepped forward toward Soldier. Without a word, he finished him off with a brutal kick to the head. The boy’s body jolted. Another stream of blood burst from his mouth. The entire gym fell silent for a moment. No one moved.

It was the bell that finally broke the tension.

Cling... cling... cling...

The metallic, artificial, impersonal sound.

And then Demoman couldn’t take it anymore. Like a dark shadow thrown from above, he jumped from the stands and ran to the center of the court, pushing the players aside like paper dolls, shoving them with rage and desperation. He knelt beside Soldier, lifting his bloody head, shouting desperately for him not to close his eyes.

The students began to rise. Some murmured. Others looked uncomfortable. And little by little, as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn’t just witnessed a public lynching, they started to leave. They exited the gym in groups, talking, nervously laughing.

Kiki stepped down from the stage. The microphone was still in her hand.

Heavy and Scout did not move.

They couldn’t.

“Thank you all very much for coming. We’re very excited for all your support at the team’s next game. Have a great day.”

Kiki’s voice sounded one last time—bright, friendly, loaded with a fake warmth that violently contrasted with the scene of cruelty that had just taken place. She pressed the microphone button with a satisfied smile, as if she had just closed a theater show with a flourish, not a public humiliation. Her heels clicked arrogantly against the wooden platform as she walked away, her perfectly styled hair swinging behind her, indifferent—or rather indifferent—to the emotional chaos she had left behind.

In the center of the gym, the reality was very different.

Demoman, frowning with eyes clouded by anger and worry, carried Soldier’s lifeless body on his back, holding him firmly despite the hot blood staining his shirt and slowly running down his side. His strong arms, used to carrying heavy loads, trembled slightly under the weight of his injured friend. Soldier said nothing. He didn’t complain. He didn’t moan. He didn’t scream. He just breathed with difficulty, hanging from Demoman like a rag doll. A thread of blood trickled from his open mouth, staining his neck, and his left eye was beginning to close from swelling. No one spoke. No one dared to break the heavy, guilt-filled silence.

The self-defense club watched silently, like a row of statues carved from disappointment. Some kept their heads down. Others clenched their fists, chests heaving with helplessness. They all felt like they had failed… but none knew exactly when the collapse began. Everything they had built, everything they represented, seemed to be teetering on a floor cracked by lies.

“Will he be okay?” Sniper asked quietly, not taking his eyes off Soldier’s bloodied body. His voice trembled, something completely unusual for him. The sniper had always been cold, distant. But at that moment, he seemed like a lost child.

“We have to get him to the nurse’s office as soon as possible,” Spy exclaimed, his harsh tone trying to dominate the panic. His face was tense, but his eyes betrayed the same uncertainty as the others.

Scout and Heavy were the last to stand from their seats. As if their bodies weighed a ton. As if shame had pinned them to the floor throughout the whole show. Their steps were slow, heavy with guilt, their faces pale and flushed from humiliation and helplessness. They approached their companions like two deserter soldiers trying to return to a base that no longer recognized them.

But before they could get any closer, a figure crossed their path.

Medic.

He stood between them and the group with a straight back and crossed arms, like a wall of ice. His white shirt fluttered slightly, stained with drops of sweat and someone else’s blood. But it was his gaze, fixed on Heavy, that hurt the most. That look filled with contempt, with cold hatred. Medic, who just hours before had given Heavy small smiles of complicity. Who looked at him with that soft gleam in his eyes, like someone finding comfort in the other’s presence. Now he looked at him like trash.

“Was all of that true?” he asked, almost spitting the words. His voice was tense, deep, restrained as if forcing himself not to shout.

Heavy didn’t know what to say. His throat closed up. He felt his chest tighten, as if something was crushing him from the inside. It was like his whole world was crumbling before his eyes and he didn’t have the words to stop it.

“Is that why you started this club, Heavy?” Medic spoke again, his voice now trembling with pure rage. “To grope boys and fall in love with one? Was it all a sham?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Heavy wanted to open his mouth but couldn’t. The words tangled inside him, trapped by guilt, desperation, by the humiliation of being exposed like that, in front of everyone. He wanted to say it wasn’t true, that things weren’t so simple. That he hadn’t done it with malice, that not everything was as it seemed. But even he doubted. He doubted his motives. He doubted himself.

And then Scout, with his nervous tone and that smile he used when he wanted to avoid pain, murmured:

“Technically, I only wanted to grope you… not others…”

Instead of easing the tension, the phrase ignited it like gasoline on embers. Medic slowly turned toward Scout, his face hardened, dark fire in his gaze. Then he looked back at Heavy, a mixture of disgust and astonishment.

“No, listen… at first…” Heavy finally began to speak, his voice broken, but was cut off by the weight of all those eyes. Everyone was watching him. The whole club. All those boys who once admired him, who trained under his guidance. Empty, hurt, disgusted looks. As if they were seeing him without skin. Without masks.

“Listen, it doesn’t matter how it started,” Scout tried to say, his voice trembling, clinging to one last thread of hope. “What matters is that we all learned something. We all got stronger. It was about brotherhood, right? About helping each other…”

But the words hung and fell, heavy, without finding an echo.

Engie was the one who broke the silence this time. His voice was low, restrained, but every word weighed like a sentence.

“I thought all this was about brotherhood,” he said, not raising his voice, but looking directly at Heavy with a disappointment that hurt more than any scream. “And what do I find? Two losers taking advantage of other people’s insecurities.”

No one argued. No one said it was unfair. Because at that moment, for all of them, that was the truth.

Demoman, without looking back, began to march toward the gym exit, with Soldier still on his back. His steps were firm, like a vow. The other boys from the club followed one by one, silently. Like a funeral procession leaving behind a field of ruins. Medic also started walking, but Heavy couldn’t let him go. Not without trying one more time.

“Medic!” he begged, reaching out, and without thinking, grabbed his wrist.

It was a desperate, almost childish gesture. Like someone trying to stop a person walking away with their heart in their hands. But Medic pulled his hand away with a sharp motion. And Heavy felt the rejection like hot iron against his skin. He froze, his arm suspended in the air, while the sting of lost contact rose through his chest to his eyes.

“Medic, please…” he whispered, broken. “Scout made me do this. I didn’t… I didn’t want to…”

But his voice choked when he saw tears on Medic’s face.

They weren’t tears of anger.

They were tears of pain. Of betrayal. Of such deep disappointment it seemed to crack the ground beneath his feet.

“You’re pathetic, Heavy,” Medic whispered, barely audible, his voice broken by crying. And without saying more, he turned and left, walking quickly, not looking back, unwilling to hear any more excuses, leaving Heavy there, alone, shattered. Scout said nothing. He just lowered his head.

And then Heavy stood still in the middle of the empty gym, feeling everything around him fall apart. As if the whole world was moving away from him, inch by inch. What was once his refuge, his purpose, his tribe, his attempt to belong… no longer existed.

Only the echo of the bell remained.

And the silence.

The only person left in the gym was Miss Pauling. Quiet, tiny, her figure bathed in the faint glow of the flickering fluorescent lights above their heads, as if even they hesitated to stay on. She pressed her clipboard tightly against her chest, her slender fingers white with tension. Her school assistant uniform, as impeccable as ever, could not hide the emotional exhaustion weighing on her shoulders. She approached slowly to the only two boys left: Scout and Heavy, who looked like frozen figures in an empty battlefield.

She looked at them silently for a moment. There was something sad and stern in her eyes, like someone who expected more, who believed in something that finally shattered before her.

“Look… I’m not an idiot,” she finally said, her voice soft but clear, filled with disappointment and resignation. “I know this club was just an excuse to fight without adult supervision.”

Her words floated in the air like ashes. Scout looked away. Heavy remained still, his fists still clenched.

“But do you want to know why I agreed to keep running it?” she continued, looking down, her lips barely moving. “Because I saw a group of kids supporting each other. Finding strength in being together. I saw something real there, something sincere. Something… I thought was worth protecting.”

She paused for a second. Her lips trembled slightly, then she sighed with a weight that didn’t seem to match her small stature. She looked up, and this time there was no reproach or anger. Only silent resignation, like a teacher watching her students burn the notebook she worked so hard to fill.

“But this… this was too much.”

She tucked the clipboard under her arm and stepped back, as if she no longer wanted to be near them.

“The self-defense club is over. I’ll talk to Mrs. Helen about the paperwork…” were the last words she said, not raising her voice, before turning and slowly leaving the gym, leaving behind a void as big as the echo of her footsteps fading down the hallway.

Scout huffed with restrained anger and began pacing in circles, dragging his feet, muttering to himself.

“I can’t believe what Soldier did to us,” he hissed, as if he were the real victim.

Heavy, still motionless, rubbed his face with both hands. It looked more like a gesture of exhaustion than frustration.

“You were the one who was mean to him yesterday,” he muttered hoarsely, without looking at him.

Scout stopped abruptly, spinning around sharply. His gaze was sharp.

“Excuse me? Are you saying this is my fault?” he clicked his tongue with bitter mockery. “I wasn’t the one who made Medic crazy.”

Heavy looked up slowly.

“What are you saying?” His voice began to tighten, a barely trembling line of restrained anger.

“If Medic hadn’t wanted revenge, we wouldn’t have blown up Mark’s car. And then Kiki wouldn’t be so mad. And whatever just happened… wouldn’t have happened,” Scout explained with a broken, tired laugh—the laugh of someone who no longer has the strength to defend himself, only to blame. “Everything went to hell from there.”

Heavy took a step forward, his figure imposing more strongly, and his voice, now firmer, cut through the air.

“So all this is my fault? Nothing falls on you?”

Scout didn’t back down. He held his gaze, jaw clenched.

“It was your idea to start the club,” he said coldly.

Heavy raised both eyebrows, incredulous.

“I didn’t want to start the club and you know that. I just followed you like an idiot,” he exclaimed, raising his voice for the first time, and Scout scoffed with a bitter laugh.

“You knew what you were doing when you kept up the gulag lie,” he spat venomously. “You enjoyed how they looked at you with respect. How Medic admired you.”

“You’re just mad because I actually managed to get somewhere with someone without you! I had a thing with Medic!” Heavy roared, eyes blazing, merciless. His words were invisible punches.

Scout took half a step back, hurt, but recovered quickly. His voice became crueler, drier.

“You’d never have talked to him because of me. I was the one who made your gay fantasy come true,” he hissed without mercy.

Heavy let out a rough, bitter laugh, almost mocking the absurdity of it all.

“Do you know what’s the funniest part of your stupidity, of all your plans, of your ‘I’ll get a girlfriend, this will be my year’?” he said, raising an eyebrow, his voice dripping with rage and disdain. “It’s that you haven’t done anything. And the rest of us keep moving forward. Even me, Scout. Even me.”

That’s when Scout stopped completely. His face lost all expression. He lowered his gaze and spoke in a weaker, defeated tone.

“Yeah… well… Miss Pauling hasn’t shown any interest…”

He tried to say more, but the words wouldn’t come out. They were broken before leaving his mouth. As if he no longer had the strength to justify himself.

Heavy showed no mercy. He took another step and raised his voice, no longer holding back his fury.

“Does that even matter? Do you really like her? Is there anyone else you care about besides yourself?” he shouted, his voice trembling. “Just go, find another girl. Get with her. And go back to being the same vile loser you always were who does nothing, just talks, who lives in his imaginary world where things go the way he wants.”

The words were like blades.

Scout didn’t answer. He just looked at him with parted lips, as if something inside him had broken forever. He lowered his gaze, turned halfway around, and walked slowly to where he had left his backpack. He grabbed it without hurry, slung it over his shoulder, and without another word, left the gym.

Scout’s footsteps faded down the hall like another echo of the disaster.

And then Heavy was left there, standing, in the now empty gym. Completely alone.

Soldier’s dried blood still stained part of the floor. The cheerleaders’ confetti was still scattered in the corners. And the lights, those damn lights, kept flickering above, as if hesitating whether to keep illuminating a place where nothing was left.

Heavy lowered his head. And for the first time, he wished he hadn’t done anything. Wished he hadn’t met anyone. Wished he hadn’t felt.

But it was too late.

Chapter 7

Summary:

No me mires con esos ojos (que me)
Me deslumbras (que me), me derrumbas
No me mires con esos ojos (porque)
Te lo doy todo, ni modo
No me mires con esos ojos que (que me)
Me derrites (que me), me trasmites
La vergüenza del sol, quien en su resplandor
Se ve opacado
A tu lado
---
"Impacto" Song By Enjambre

The days dragged on like dying worms under the sun—slow and sticky, saturated with a constant sense of emotional decay. For Heavy, each school day was an agony that repeated with the cruel monotony of a prison sentence. The simple act of putting on the uniform felt like torture; buttoning it over his chest was like sealing a coffin slowly closing in on him. Entering the school building meant submitting to a public display where his body was exposed to scorn without a single word—because eyes spoke louder than any insult.

The stares followed him, scanned him, reduced him. Some were direct, filled with poorly disguised hostility; others were subtler, like knives hidden behind neutral smiles or bored yawns. But all of them judged. All of them knew. And the worst part was that Heavy knew too. He knew he had lost everything. He knew that, once feared and respected, he had fallen into disgrace—become the hallway gossip, the scandal of the month, the shattered figure wandering alone, without a club, without friends, without a name.

Before, when he still had his people behind him, those looks didn’t touch him. He didn’t care about the indifferent ones, ignored the mockers, and anyone brave enough to confront him usually ended up swallowing their own teeth. But now… now it hurt. Now every step felt like walking through a field of thorns, because there was no one left at his side to serve as a shield. No smiles. No pats on the back. No voice calling him “partner.” He was alone. And the silence devoured him like a tumor.

In class, things weren’t any better. If anything, they were worse. Engie, his former unconditional ally, didn’t even look at him anymore. The Texan used to be his shadow, his personal mechanic, his strategist. Now, he turned his back on him with surgical coldness. If Heavy needed notes, Engie wouldn’t even notice. If he dropped a pencil, Engie looked away like Heavy was a ghost. Indifference, more than anger or contempt, was what hurt the most. Because out of all emotions, that one was the most final. The one that said he no longer existed to someone.

Miss Pauling had kept her word, like an executioner who doesn’t flinch before releasing the guillotine. The sign posted on the bulletin board was the epitaph of his former life:
"SELF-DEFENSE CLUB SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."
Heavy looked at it every day, like someone visiting the grave of a loved one. Only in this case, the dead one was him.

And as if fate had a thing for kicking him while he was down, the ghosts of his past still wandered the halls. Medic and Kiki. The couple. He had seen them with his own eyes, walking hand in hand through the lockers, as if everything that had happened was just a bad dream long forgotten. Kiki, always so theatrical, hanging off him, kissing his cheek with her usual flamboyant flair. But Medic… Medic looked like a shadow of himself. He accepted the kisses like they were chores to get through. His face, once filled with twisted passion, was now a gray, inert mask.
Heavy watched him from a distance, still harboring a ridiculous spark of hope—that the German would turn his head, would look for him in the crowd, would remember. Would hold him, like he did that one time. But that Medic—the one who believed in shared madness, in violence as a form of affection—no longer existed. He had been swallowed by apathy, domesticated by normality.
All that was left was silence. And dead longing.

Soldier never came back to class either. Some rumors said he wasn’t badly injured, but that he needed time off. That he was resting at Demoman’s house. No one asked further. The adults ignored it or pretended to. After all, who would worry about a boy who shouted about Vietnam during lunch?

They say Demoman’s mother was blind. That she couldn’t see the battered teenager sleeping in her son’s bed. Or maybe she did know, and simply didn’t care. Maybe in that house, secrets were left to sit like old bottles of whiskey—until they were forgotten on their own.

Even worse, they said the old members of the club —except for him and Scout— still met there, as if the brotherhood had never broken. They watched war movies, listened to Soldier ramble about useless strategies, laughed between bags of chips and cheap soda. They celebrated without inviting him. As if he had never existed.

Scout didn’t say anything either. They didn’t see each other outside of class. They didn’t share lunch or write notes. They only passed each other in the halls, like strangers who once shared something no one dared to mention anymore.

That day, when he got to his locker, Heavy felt it before he saw it. A bad feeling, an uneasiness in his chest, like something inside him already knew what he was going to find. He stopped in front of his locker. The words, scribbled in red marker, were clear, vulgar, and cruel:
“Filthy faggot”

And next to it, on Scout’s locker, another message:
“Filthy faggot’s helper”

There was no one nearby. The hallway was strangely empty, as if the whole building refused to witness his humiliation.
That’s when he heard footsteps.

Scout appeared around the corner, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He saw him. Saw the lockers. Saw the marker.
And said nothing.

He just looked down. Turned around. And walked away.

Heavy didn’t shout. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t call after him.

He just turned too, walking in the opposite direction, without looking back.
Because that’s what they did now.

Turn their backs.
Walk away.
Disappear.

...

Recess felt like a sentence. Mikhail, still hunched under the weight of shame and emptiness, was practically exiled from the cafeteria. It wasn’t from an explicit order or a formal punishment; he just knew there was no point in being there anymore. Without the invisible shield that came from belonging to the self-defense club, everything was whispers and sidelong glances slicing through trays of greasy pizza and plastic utensils. He didn’t have Pyro or Scout to laugh about the teachers behind their backs anymore, or Demoman to throw crumbs at Sniper while planning something stupid but comforting. The cafeteria, once a noisy trench full of the smell of canned soup, was now a minefield. And most of all, he couldn’t bear to see them.

Not them.

Not Medic and Kiki.

Not after seeing them together.

So he ran. Like a wounded dog, with his crumpled paper bag under his arm, he walked silently to the rusted bleachers by the football field, where the players’ voices no longer echoed. The team didn’t have practice that day, which meant he could be alone. Alone with his sadness. Alone with his humiliation. Alone with that image stuck in his mind like a rusted nail in his skull: Kiki resting her head on Medic’s shoulder, laughing at something he’d never know. Something he would never understand.

He sat awkwardly on the third row of the bleachers, the metal beneath him still warm from the sun, and dropped the paper bag at his side. He reached in and pulled out his half-melted sandwich, but the bread was already soggy, the mayonnaise was starting to separate, and the idea of eating caught in his throat before he even tried.

Then he heard her.

"Good morning, Mikhail."

The voice came from behind him, rough like gravel dragged by the wind. He turned his head slowly, as if unsurprised, as if already expecting that even in his isolation someone would come to mock him a little more. There was Ms. Helen. With her eternal cigarette hanging from her lips, smeared makeup, and that expression of absolute disinterest in anything that wasn’t her own existence.

The Russian sighed deeply and, without saying a word, put the sandwich back into the bag. The smell of tobacco churned his stomach instantly.

"Good morning, Ms. Helen," he murmured with resignation, lowering his gaze.

"And what's with the kicked puppy face?" the woman asked with a dry, almost sarcastic laugh as she took a long drag from her cigarette. The smoke came out like a cemetery sigh, wrapping Mikhail in a spiral of nicotine and disdain.

Heavy let out a low growl, not from anger but from sorrow. A sadness that scraped his throat like coarse sand, that left him breathless.

"I think you already know, ma'am. The self-defense club got shut down... and now I'm the worst social outcast in the school. I don’t have any friends left..." His voice broke on the last word, as if just saying it out loud made the wound open again, deeper. Saying it was like tearing off a piece of himself.

The older woman didn’t even blink.

"If I cared about you, I’d feel sorry and give you advice," she said with maddening calm, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hit the boy's face directly. "But I don’t care. So I’ll just tell you to stay out of the consequences."

"Thanks..." Mikhail said, with a dry, empty, aching smile. "Maybe I’ll just keep my head down for the rest of the school year... Hell... maybe I won’t even go to the game tonight."

He coughed hard. The smoke and hopelessness were closing in on his chest. Helen’s indifference didn’t surprise him. The woman was known for her total lack of tact, but... maybe that was why he had approached her. Because at least she didn’t pretend to care. Because she didn’t lie.

"Possibly the only smart thing you've done." The phrase was almost a whisper, but enough to pull Mikhail out of his cloud of self-pity.

"What do you mean, ma'am?" he asked, frowning in genuine curiosity. It was rare for the teacher to say anything resembling a warning.

"Don’t you know?" she asked, narrowing her eyes with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. When she saw the boy truly didn’t understand, she clicked her tongue. "Damn, what the hell are they teaching kids at this school?"

She lifted the cigarette from her lips and held it between two fingers painted with chipped red polish. Then she used it to point at the empty field in front of them.

"BLU and RED high schools have a rivalry that goes beyond sports or cheerleading. It’s hate, Mikhail. Pure. And old. Every match, every encounter, every game... it’s a chance to get even. It’s not just a school legend, you know? It’s a damn tradition. They always slaughter a player or cheerleader from the rival team. Always."

She let the weight of her words sink in before continuing.

"Look, in 1925 they burned a player alive along with his dog in the back parking lot. In '49, they drowned a cheerleader in a kiddie pool that had been drained. In '66, they tied the rival team captain to four horses and... well, they tore him apart."

The cigarette trembled slightly between her fingers, but not from fear—rather from exhaustion.

"So if you're as cowardly and pathetic as you say you are, then don’t go. Stay locked in your room. Cry. Masturbate. Whatever. Just... don’t go."

Mikhail stayed still. He said nothing. Didn’t even blink.

Because suddenly, he understood.

It wasn’t just a game. It never had been. The rivalry between RED and BLU wasn’t a joke for school pamphlets or cheers at games. It was real violence. A dark legacy repeated year after year, and no one did anything to stop it.

Someone could die tonight.

And that changed everything.

He couldn’t keep his head down.

He couldn’t keep running.

He had to gather the self-defense club.

And he had to do it now.

...

Night had fallen like a heavy curtain over the campus, wrapping everything in a dark mist speckled with the distant lights of the stadium. The floodlights flickered like artificial fireflies, and from afar, the echo of shouts, whistles, and cheers rose like a growing tide, charged with adrenaline and expectation. But outside that noisy bubble, the parking lot was another world. Cold. Silent. Almost still. A space where shadows stretched and things seemed bigger than they were.

In a poorly lit corner, leaning against a cracked concrete wall, Scout stood with his arms crossed over his chest, head down, his feet nervously scraping the ground. His jacket was loosely fastened, as if he’d thrown it on without much thought, and the hood hung limp on his back.

“Come on... it’s just a stupid game, it’s not like they’re going to humiliate you in there...” he murmured softly, as if repeating a phrase he’d rehearsed all afternoon. His voice was lost in the vast open space, as if not even worth bouncing off the nearby walls. The weight he carried was more than just the forgotten backpack at home; it was the weight of gossip, pointing fingers, poorly hidden laughter, the nickname he’d earned alongside Heavy: “The two biggest failures in school.”

He had sworn he wouldn’t come. That he’d stay home, in the old couch in the living room, with a blanket over his legs, watching a soap opera with his mother and one of his little siblings perched beside him, asking for candy or to change the channel. But no. He was here. Standing. Tense. Every muscle trying to convince him to leave before anyone saw him.

“It won’t be a big deal... looks and humiliations. You’ve survived that for the last fifteen years of your life... you can survive one more day...” he repeated to himself, but his voice sounded less steady. Like it was about to break.

Then, a hand fell on his shoulder. Strong. Unexpected. Like a claw.

“What the hell?!” Scout shouted, whipping his body around, heart pounding wildly in his chest like an offbeat drum. But as soon as he saw Heavy’s panting face, he let his guard down slightly... though only slightly.

The Russian looked agitated. His breathing was heavy, and sweat drenched his forehead as if he had been running all night to get there. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide, as if fear was pushing him to speak without thinking. But Scout didn’t care. Not really. Not after what happened between them. After he felt abandoned. Betrayed.

“What are you doing here? And why are you so worked up?” Scout blurted out, a mix of annoyance and curiosity in his voice, unable to look at the other without suspicion. There were too many mixed emotions. So many that he no longer knew which to prioritize.

Heavy raised a hand, as if asking permission to speak, while gasping for air desperately. “Listen, I know we’re not on the best terms, but…”

“Yes, we are. Because I’m angry. Very angry.” Scout replied through clenched teeth, crossing his arms tightly. There was rage in his gaze, but it wasn’t pure anger. It was a murky mixture of resentment and pain. Pain because, despite everything, he still considered him a friend. Or something close to that.

“The point is, we have to talk about this whole game thing,” Heavy insisted, trying to sound reasonable, though his voice betrayed his urgency. Impatience vibrated in every word.

“Yeah, well. I don’t want to hear it.” Scout cut him off, clicking his tongue with contempt. He didn’t want to show it, but his voice trembled a little. Not from fear. From sadness. It still hurt. The way everything ended with the self-defense club. The words said between them, that empty seat next to him during breaks, how he became the school’s worst social outcast, how the humiliations and ostracism worsened, much worse. All that still weighed on him, even more than the daily mockery.

But then Heavy took a step toward him. And before Scout could back away, he grabbed his arm. Hard. As if afraid he’d slip away.

“You should consider it. Because I talked to Ms. Helen. And she told me this rivalry with BLU High... it’s not just a game. It’s something darker.” The Russian’s voice quivered like a string about to snap. “Every time we face them, something happens. They’re always trying... to kill the team captain. Or a cheerleader. There’s always a victim. Someone always ends up in the hospital or... dead.”

Scout froze. His gaze, which moments before had been full of contempt, now filled with a rawer, more basic emotion. Panic.

“What... what the hell are you saying?” he muttered, taking a step back, trying to pull free. “Kill? Is this a joke?”

“Do you think I’d be here, looking for you like crazy, if it was a joke?” Heavy growled, frowning. “I know you don’t believe me. I know you’re fed up with me. But this is real. Ms. Helen confessed it to me. It’s something... something they’ve always covered up. There are files. Buried articles. And now\... they want someone new.”

Scout swallowed hard. He could feel his throat drying up. The atmosphere was no longer just tense; it was suffocating. As if the air around them had thickened.

“If... if this shit is bloody... I’m out of here,” he muttered, his voice breaking. He didn’t care if they called him a coward. He didn’t want to be part of a game with rules he didn’t understand and consequences he wasn’t willing to face. But then... Heavy’s grip didn’t let go.

“Wait, Scout. We have to get the self-defense club back together right now if we’re going to save them.”

Heavy’s voice came out broken by gasps, as he leaned forward, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his chest rose and fell urgently, but his eyes were fixed desperately on his friend. It was an uncomfortable mix of pleading and determination, of need and regret, as if his whole body was driven by one last spark of hope.

Scout looked at him silently for a few seconds. Then clicked his tongue sharply, lowered his head slightly, and let out a sigh heavy with discomfort. His brows furrowed and jaw tensed as he tried to process what he had just heard. The next thing he did was slowly raise his eyes, and when he did, his gaze reflected more disbelief than anything else.

“What? You’re saying that you and I, along with all those idiots who now hate us with all their soul, have to band together to save a shallow cheerleader and a dumb football player who always treated us like crap?” Scout asked with a poisonous mix of mockery and indignation, crossing his arms and taking a step back.

His words were a dagger straight to the heart, but Heavy didn’t respond with anger. He just shrugged a little, as if feeling the weight of every syllable. Embarrassed, he lowered his gaze and nodded briefly, barely noticeable. His large frame seemed smaller, hunched over like a kid who had done something unforgivable and was now trying to fix it, even though he knew it might already be too late.

“Okay... but why do you put it like that?” he muttered awkwardly. “If you say it like that... it sounds crazy.”

Scout let out a bitter laugh, a sigh that was more a declaration of exhaustion than humor. He ran a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the stupidity of it all.

“Because it is fucking crazy!” he exclaimed, this time without mockery, without laughter, without masks. His voice was heavy with frustration, dry and tense like a rope about to snap. “Why would we do something like that, Heavy? Why?”

Heavy looked up. His eyes, which were usually calm, now burned with fire. The same fire that had flared during practice, in arguments, in important decisions. But now it wasn’t anger. It was something deeper. Pain. Regret. Faith.

“Because we made those kids trust us and then humiliated them!” he shouted, stepping forward. “Because they opened doors for us, believed in us, trained with us, got stronger with us... and then we threw them on the floor like they were worth nothing!”

Scout froze. He had expected anger. He had expected a useless defense. But this... this he didn’t see coming. He looked at Heavy suspiciously, as if expecting to find a lie behind his speech, a trap, a manipulation attempt. But there was none of that. Only truth. A painful, shining, trembling truth.

“They deserve the chance to show everyone what they learned, what they know\... how awesome they are,” Heavy said, now in a softer voice, almost reverent. As if he were speaking of something sacred.

Scout felt something break inside him.

He wanted to say no, that it was too late, that those kids didn’t want them around, that they had already done enough damage... but he also knew those were excuses. That the damage done wasn’t a reason not to try to fix it. And that Heavy wasn’t just asking for help for them. He was doing it for himself. For both of them. For the club. For what they once were.

Scout’s mind filled with memories. Harsh words. Fights. Moments when he swore he never wanted to see Heavy again. Times they said things that couldn’t be taken back. Small and big betrayals. Disappointments. And yet... there was Heavy. In front of him. With empty hands. But with an open heart.

“Scout... we’re friends. You’re the loser and I’m the gay...” the Russian murmured, approaching carefully, as if afraid Scout would pull away. He placed both hands firmly, lovingly, on Scout’s shoulders. “We’re together because...”

Scout blinked.

He had said that. Years ago. When they were younger. When they had no one. When they were fed up with the world, with school, with the people who trampled on them. When they sealed their friendship not with a handshake or a promise, but with a silent acceptance: that the world didn’t want them, but they could want each other.

Because if the world was against the two of them, then the two of them would be against the world.

A slow, cheeky, stubborn smile spread across Scout’s lips. The kind of smile that always appeared right before he did something crazy. He shook his head with a resigned sigh that sounded more like relief.

“Losers gotta stick together...”

He raised his hands and placed them over Heavy’s, squeezing tightly. There were no doubts anymore. No resentment. Just resolve. Just the two of them. Like always.

“Damn, how much I hate you, asshole,” he murmured, with a joyless but honest laugh. Then he looked up, and that spark of fire—the one that never quite died out in him—flared up again, strong.

“But come on. We have to gather the defense club. We’ve got some asses to kick.”

And so, as if the weight of their mistakes had turned into momentum, the two friends—the original losers—turned around, ready to face the chaos they themselves had helped create. Together again. As it should be.

...

Scout and Heavy burst through the side entrances of the field like two directionless whirlwinds, pushing the fans crowding the place without much care. The crowd’s shouts, the referees’ whistles, and the thudding of the ball against the court created a deafening chaos that only heightened the tension in their bodies. Scout moved ahead with his usual agility, while Heavy, panting but determined, followed with heavy, steady steps, almost as if dragging all the gravity of the moment with him.

They weaved through bodies, between pushes and shouts they couldn’t quite understand. The heat of the place, mixed with the energy of the game, caused cold sweat on their foreheads, but neither seemed to stop until they reached their destination: the group.

From a distance, Scout spotted them. In one of the upper stands, just under one of the bright signs, was the rest of the team. All sitting silently, watching the game without much enthusiasm, as if they weren’t really there. It wasn’t just the lack of emotion on their faces that made them different, but the invisible distance now between them. A gap made of resentment, harsh words, and wounds that still hadn’t healed.

Soldier was there, with a calmer expression than the last time Scout had seen him. Although he still had a big bruise on his right cheek and several band-aids across the bridge of his nose, his posture was no longer so rigid or defensive. At least, he seemed less guarded. But the tension in the air was palpable. Like a rope about to snap.

Without saying more, Scout and Heavy started climbing the stands, and when they reached the group, Heavy didn’t waste a second.

“First things first—Scout is going to apologize to Soldier,” he declared in a deep voice, still panting from the run, extending a firm hand toward the young man with the cap. Everyone in the group turned toward them. Their looks were a mixture of distrust, suspicion, and in some cases, simple curiosity. Soldier lifted his head, and his gaze met Scout’s. It was a tense, sharp look, seeming to measure every move, every word, every intention.

Demoman, sitting beside Soldier, frowned. His eyes hardened, as if trying to protect his friend just with the weight of his suspicion. Sniper and Pyro watched silently, not intervening, but clearly paying close attention to every word.

“Well, uh…” muttered Scout, running a hand to the back of his neck. His fingers trembled slightly, and he avoided the piercing looks coming from every direction. “Come on, just do it already,” grunted Heavy, giving him a light shove on the shoulder that forced him forward.

Scout took a deep breath, trying to find his center. Then he looked up, straight into Soldier’s eyes. His voice changed. He left behind nervousness and became firm, clear, with no trace of mockery or superficiality.

“Soldier, I… regret telling you that you have no friends. To be honest, you have more than I do. Much more. And I also regret saying that your father is an alcoholic who hates you. That was… low. Very out of line. And I know it hurt you.” Every word seemed to weigh on him, as if saying them stripped away something he had carried inside for a long time. But he kept going, because he had to.

Soldier watched him with narrowed eyes, measuring each syllable, evaluating if the apology was real or just another strategy to clean up his image. Demoman didn’t take his eyes off Heavy, looking for any sign of a trap, a trick, something that would make them lower their guard only to get hurt again.

“And…” Scout continued, his voice now a little less sure, “you’re right. You were one of the reasons the defense club could exist in the first place. Without you, we wouldn’t have even had members. I don’t know if we ever told you… but it was because of you this started.”

Soldier seemed to blink slowly, surprised, as if that confession unsettled his resistance. Despite his reservations, something inside him was beginning to soften. He could feel it. He could see it in the way Scout no longer sounded arrogant, childish, or lost in his own problems.

“Above all…” Scout said, lowering his voice a bit, as if struggling to continue, “I regret being so bad to you. Being rude, cruel, unfair. All this time. You didn’t have to put up with me. And yet… you did. You were always there, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The silence that fell at that moment was deafening. The noise of the game seemed to fade away, as if the field had disappeared. There was only them, and those words hanging in the thick air around them.

“And I really appreciate everything you’ve done for us. For me.” Scout’s voice trembled slightly. There was shame in it. True regret, the kind that can’t be faked, that only comes when someone truly understands how much they’ve hurt another.

Heavy remained silent. He had nothing more to add. Everything that needed to be said was coming from Scout’s lips. And all he could do was be there. To witness. To support. Because there are moments no one else can fix but those involved.

Scout looked up one last time, meeting Soldier’s eyes. And with a breath that seemed to carry weeks of guilt, he asked:

“Do you forgive me?”

It was a simple question. But it carried the full weight of his mistakes, all the times he’d failed, all the words he should never have said. Scout was no longer the same as he had been days ago. Something in him had changed. Something real. Something even Soldier could see.

There was a pause.

And then, Soldier nodded. Not too fast, not too big. Just a slight movement of his head, accompanied by a small, barely noticeable smile on his lips.

“It’s okay,” he said.

They were just two words. But they carried more power than any speech.

Demoman snorted softly through his nose. Not because he didn’t believe in the apology, but because he knew there was still much to heal. But if Soldier was willing to accept it… so would he. Reluctantly, perhaps. But he would.

Scout let out a sigh that seemed torn from the very depths of his chest. It was relief. The feeling of having shed a weight that had followed him for too long.

“Don’t mess it up again,” Demoman murmured, without looking directly at him. “Because if you do, this time there won’t be forgiveness.”

Scout nodded, with a shy yet serious smile at the same time. “I know.”

And for the first time in a long time, he felt part of the group again. Not completely. Not entirely. But it was a start. A step. An important one.

But for them, something had changed.

And that… was everything.

“I don’t want to interrupt this beautiful moment, but we don’t have time. Because I have information from a reliable source that BLU High School will try to kill someone from our team tonight.” Heavy exclaimed with a firm, almost furious voice, pushing Scout aside with a sharp shove, completely breaking the emotional tension hanging in the air like a vibrating spiderweb. The scene—Scout about to apologize, the latent reconciliation in the air, the looks loaded with unresolved emotions—collapsed suddenly, as if someone had turned off the light.

And it was at that very moment, as the whisper of the threat hung suspended in the air, that Heavy realized something. Something sharp. Something that pierced his chest with the surgical precision of a needle. Medic was not with them.

The absence of the German, usually eccentric and smiling, fell like a shadow over his mind. Medic should have been there, with them, not with Kiki. He should have been there. That was his nature. To be close to the wounds. To stay aware. To care. But he wasn’t. And the emptiness he left behind was brutal. Heavy felt it like an echo in a closed room. Cold, immense, and unpleasant.

But there was no time. Not now. Not with the imminent threat. Not with the burning thought in his mind that tonight, on these fields, someone from their team could die. He had to keep a clear head, he had to act.

“What are you talking about, Heavy? There’s no one on the fields.” Spy said in that tired, disdainful tone he used whenever everything seemed like a mediocre joke. He rolled his eyes, and without waiting for a response, brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling lazily. He exhaled the smoke through his nose with disdain, as if expelling any hint of urgency along with it.

Heavy turned his head toward the fields. And Spy was right. There was no game yet. No sign of the players. Neither their team nor BLU’s. Only their school’s cheerleaders on the edges, some sitting, others stretching their legs or practicing simple formations, amid teenage laughter that seemed distant, too far from the fear rising like acid in his stomach.

But that stillness was exactly what worried him. The forced normality. The calm before the storm.

“For God’s sake, there’s no one on the fields. Obviously, that’s alarming. Don’t you see it as a warning sign? It’s fucked up!” Heavy bellowed, shaking his fist in the air, searching for some kind of validation, a minimal reaction, something to make him feel less crazy.

But no one backed him up.

And that made him even more desperate.

Everything in his mind seemed to run at different speeds: the urgency of the threat, Medic’s absence, the unnatural silence of the playing field. There were loose pieces floating in the air, and he couldn’t put them together. He felt disaster was inches away, and yet he had no idea how to stop it.

“Whatever…” Spy murmured, shrugging with a disguised yawn. He took one last drag of his cigarette, and without looking, stubbed it out in Pyro’s cup. A deliberate act, like a passive-aggressive message that no one would read.

Pyro didn’t react. He just bobbed his head to the rhythm of the distant cheers, as if nothing existed beyond the festive echo of the stadium. An unsettling presence, disconnected, almost spectral.

Heavy turned again, searching for another mind, another hope.

“Engie… you’re the smartest one in the group.” His voice dropped in volume, broken by pleading, looking at him with a mixture of respect and desperation. Engie, who had remained silent until then, watching everything with attentive eyes behind his glasses, finally moved. He took Pyro’s cup with a grimace of disgust and threw it into a corner, letting the plastic hit the fence with a hollow sound.

“Of course I know.” Engie murmured in a tone loaded with sarcasm, almost insulting. “Do you think I don’t know?” His voice, however, lacked strength. It was as if he didn’t feel like arguing, as if he had already gone through this same anxiety in his head and hadn’t found an answer.

That only made Heavy feel more alone.

“Help us figure this out. We have to stop the game, we have to save him.” Heavy insisted, with no trace of pride in his voice. There was no room for that. Not when a life could be at stake. Not when there was a real threat in the air, invisible but as tangible as a knife in the dark.

Engie sighed deeply, and after what felt like eternal seconds, nodded slowly. Not enthusiastically, nor decisively. But at least with some resignation. That was enough.

“Wait. Soldier…” Scout said suddenly, with a sharp, almost electric look, “we need a distraction.”

The silence grew dense. Everyone turned toward Soldier.

The man raised an eyebrow, looking at them with the intensity of someone who had been waiting for that phrase for hours. His smile slowly widened, revealing clenched teeth and an emotion impossible to ignore.

“Now you want a rocket launcher?” he said in a restrained voice, as if the very idea gave him life. His laugh was a muffled, deep, dangerous chuckle. There was no sanity in that smile. But there was no time to look for it either.

Because the truth was, they didn’t need something good.

They needed chaos.

They needed something.

...

Heavy hurried down the bleachers, his footsteps pounding loudly on the concrete steps while the other members of the self-defense club followed close behind. Scout was just behind him, nervously muttering under his breath, while Engie brought up the rear, observing everything with a calculating gaze. They already had a basic plan, a general idea that, hopefully, would save the night without anyone ending up hurt… or dead. But it was a fragile hope, as thin as the thread holding the group together.

They descended the steps like a determined pack, pushing students aside without asking permission. The general murmur of the stadium was swallowed by the band’s music and the scattered cheers of the crowd, and no one seemed to notice their urgency. When they finally reached the front rows, the atmosphere changed. That section wasn’t for just anyone. They were in the exclusive area, where only the cheerleaders, star athletes, and the most popular faces of the school could sit. It was a delicate territory, marked by expensive perfume, designer bags, and laughter that sounded more like knives.

And there he was.

Sitting with a straight back, arms crossed over his chest, and an unbreakably serene expression, Medic seemed oblivious to the bustle around him. His face, impeccably groomed, showed no emotion whatsoever. He was the portrait of disinterest, elegant abandonment. His eyes, hidden behind his small round glasses, didn’t move or follow anyone. They simply stared straight ahead, as if trapped in a distant place none of them could reach.

Heavy felt a chill. Despite the urgency that had brought him there, he paused for a moment, hesitating.

Medic wasn’t alone, of course. The cheerleaders were scattered in nearby seats, some adjusting their skirts with graceful, automatic movements, others checking their makeup with small handheld mirrors. All of them were figures from another world, shiny and decorative, like untouchable ornaments. But Kiki, the team captain and Medic’s official girlfriend, was nowhere in sight. And maybe because of that, Heavy found the courage to approach.

With long strides, he moved toward Medic, his shadow covering the German for a moment. His voice trembled with anxiety but remained firm as he spoke:

“Medic, I know you probably hate me right now. But I need you to come back to the self-defense club!”

It was the first time he’d looked at him closely in weeks.

And at that moment, something inside him broke.

That dangerous sparkle was gone from his eyes, along with the manic smile that used to appear when he was about to hit someone with his fists or a kick, or when he’d obsessively and sadistically check his friends’ wounds. That twisted enthusiasm for morbid medicine had disappeared. Medic was no longer the young man who laughed amid chaos, diagnosing bruises as if they were poems. He was just a quiet boy, cold and elegant in appearance, holding his pale pink girlfriend’s bag as if it were his only purpose in life.

“What for?” he murmured, venom in his voice. “So you can lie to me and grope me?”

His tone was an icy knife that stabbed Heavy straight in the chest. The Russian took a step back, as if he had really been hit.

Because, even after everything, even after the disaster, his heart was still bleeding for Medic. He still remembered how, once upon a time, his feelings had been returned. There were stolen moments in hallways, shared glances during practice, knowing smiles in the solitude of Heavy’s room... but Heavy ruined it all. He trampled it with his own clumsy hands. And now, the Medic looking back at him was no longer the same.

“Medic, we really need you!” Scout intervened, losing patience. His words were like stones thrown against a wall: Medic didn’t even blink. He simply turned his face away, ignoring both of them with calculated elegance.

“I’m not coming back,” he declared. It wasn’t a whisper or a plea. It was a firm statement, leaving no room for error or hope.

Heavy opened his mouth to respond, to fight, to beg if necessary. Anything. But the moment shattered in seconds.

A wave of football players from the school team emerged from the sides, as if they’d been waiting for the exact moment to act. Their bulky bodies and tight uniforms formed a wall of flesh that completely blocked the way, stopping any attempt to get closer. Their shoulders locked like human barriers, and though Heavy pushed, he couldn’t move an inch.

It was impossible to reach him.

And still, the Russian tried. He craned his neck, shouted over the noise, pleaded with his eyes. But Medic stayed there, motionless, indifferent, staring straight ahead. He never turned to look at him again. Never.

“Please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important!” Heavy shouted, desperation breaking his voice.

But there was no answer. Only silence. Only Medic’s straight back, as if he hadn’t even heard him.

“We don’t have time for this,” Engie said from a few meters back, his voice full of urgency. “Soldier already took the rocket launcher out of Sniper’s minivan.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with disaster. Engie took off running toward a tree where Soldier waited with his usual crazy expression and the dangerous weapon slung over his shoulders. The rest of the club followed, understanding they couldn’t be left behind. But Heavy… Heavy didn’t move.

He stayed there, trapped in a futile attempt to reach something already lost. He shouted, waved his arms, tried with all his might to catch Medic’s attention, to beg with his eyes what he couldn’t put into words. But it was like talking to a photograph.

“Heavy, let’s go!” Scout exclaimed, coming back toward him. He grabbed Heavy’s arm firmly and, without giving him a choice, pulled him away from the golden seats of the elite. Heavy didn’t resist. He just lowered his head, defeated, as Medic’s distant figure faded into the crowd.

Notes:

It’s my birthday! Hello everyone, I just wanted to say sorry for not updating for a few days, but today I decided to do it as a gift for both myself and you, since today is my birthday.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'll be leaving my Twitter here in case you feel like chatting with me for a while.