Chapter 1: Rant Away
Chapter Text
The pain of getting stitched up was something almost every man on the team had to deal with after each bloodsoaked-battle.
Sure, the Medigun was there and it worked miracles– it could fix anything up in the matter of seconds, whether a small papercut or a missing limb– but Dr. Fritz had made it clear that he was against overusing and abusing his machinery.
Ever since certain mercenaries had begun throwing themselves into dangerous situations (something they had always done, only now with increasing frequency) without a second thought, Medic became more and more strict.
They cared little for the consequences of their actions and the pain that came with them, almost too sure that Dr. Fritz would be all prepped up ready to heal them from their injuries.
A grumpy soldier stormed out of the medbay with a “Huff”, his right arm now immobilized by tight bandages: he had expected to be healed instantly by the doctor so he could run back out and cause more havoc, but apparently Dr.Fritz had other plans.
“Maybe now you’ll learn!” Medic shouted from across the room, voice sharp with frustration after such a long battle.
A heavy sigh escaped him before turning back to his patient; the massive Russian sitting patiently on the bed.
“Doktor knows Soldier never learns.” Heavy remarked softly, a faint smile on his lips. His forearm stretched out on the table, Medic’s hands working with surprising care and delicacy–so unlike his usual brusque manner.
“No, he does not.” Medic murmured, eyes still glued to the injury: a deep cut, courtesy of the enemy Spy’s dagger.
Heavy had trusted his instincts and turned just in time, saving his spine from the sharp blade.
The Spy had panicked, going for his chest instead– this also failed, as the Heavy had thrown his arm up, taken the blow there and shoved the snake away before finishing him off with his beloved minigun.
“I mean, seriously!” Medic complained, abruptly getting up from his chair and marching to his supply cart to fetch some more cotton, gesturing wildly in the meantime as to wring the anger out of himself.
Heavy simply watched in silence.
“They never listen! Scout, Soldier-”
“Demoman”, Heavy added.
“Demoman!” Medic turned around, irritation clear on his face.
“My Medigun is not a plaything! It is not a toy!- It is a professional medical device made for an emergency in battle! Overuse it, und it vill break!” He scowled, his accent thickening with every word.
It’s a thing Heavy had always, in secret, admired about the man.
“Und it’s not as good as ze RED team’s one! Gott knows vat they have done to make it vork so efficiently!” Fritz’s brows knit in anger, his fists clenched. “Fifteen minutes it takes us to prepare an Ubercharge– Fifteen!” he threw his arms about again, as if trying to paint a picture in the air for Heavy to understand. “And! it lasts barely forty-five seconds. Zeirs? five minutes, and it goes for a full minute!”
As Medic’s fiery and dramatic rant went on, Heavy calmly picked up the needle from the equipment table and began stitching the wound closed by himself, tying off the last thread with steady hands, letting his coworker spill out every frustration and offering only the occasional hum or nod to show that he was present and listening.
It took Fritz another seven minutes of shouting about how bad and miserable his day had been before finally noticing that Heavy had finished stitching himself up, the anger etched on his face now melted into sudden worry.
“Oh gott, it seems I have gotten… distracted- “ He muttered , stepping closer to Heavy and inspecting his work. It wasn’t the best- the stitches were clumsy and uneven in some places– unsurprising, given Heavy’s large hands and lack of medical training, but they would hold.
“You could've said something–”
“Is ok.” Heavy interrupted gently. “Doktor needed to vent, let frustration out. I understand.”
The disaster of Heavy’s work began to set in.
“Ach, nein nein, Zis is barbaric! These stitches are too tight! You vill hurt yourself.”
“But wound is closed, no problem.” Heavy replied, calm as ever.
“No problem? Zese stitches look like zey vere done by … by some blind man!” Medic’s slapped a bloodied hand to his forehead.
Heavy said nothing. He didn’t take Medic’s insult to heart– just stood up from his seat, his massive frame towering over the doctor. Medic, left up staring at him, wondered if perhaps he’d gone a little too far this time.
“Thank you, Doktor.”
“Ah… you’re velcome Heavy.” Medic mumbled, lifting a hand to give the giant a pat on his back.
As Heavy left the medbay, Demoman came stumbling down the hall, bottle of scrumpy in hand and Eyelander in the other, sobbing and hissing something slurred and incoherent as the sword complained in response.
He tripped over a loose cable on the floor and, by sheer luck, landed flat on the medical bed Heavy had just vacated.
“Tavish! You are a mess!” Medic barked from the distance, exasperated (but hardly surprised).
The russian continued on through the halls, unbothered. He soon passed by Spy’s smoking room, where the door was left ajar. Inside, Spy sat with his usual elegance: legs crossed, a plume of smoke curling from his expensive cigar as he flipped through the Daily Teufort Journal with practiced indifference.
Heavy knew that when Spy’s door stood open, it was an unspoken invitation for the man to come in.
Aside from the Engineer, Heavy was the only man permitted into the smoking room without knocking. For Spy, granting access to that space was a rare show of trust- a gesture Heavy understood and appreciated, even if he never once put it into words.
He let himself in.
The door’s old hinges gave a low creak as it swung open, but Spy did not bother to turn around.
“Welcome in Mikhail, you’ve done well today.” he commented calmly, voice smooth and deliberate as he raised a crystal glass of red wine in a quiet toast, inviting the other man in for a drink.
Heavy lumbered further into the room, pale blue-grey eyes drifting to a chair which usually wasn’t there, meaning that Spy, meticulous as ever, had anticipated him.
Spy had even prepared a glass of Vodka for the man. How nice. Heavy picked it up with his thick fingers and inspected it for a moment, sniffing and turning the glass slowly as though weighing both the drink and the gesture behind it, then tossed it back in a single, effortless gulp.
The motion didn’t escape Spy’s notice, From behind the veil of smoke, he looked curiously at the larger man, though he returned his eyes to the Teufort Journal the moment the glass was empty, as if nothing had happened.
“Today’s puzzles…” he began, swirling his wine before taking a measured sip.
“Da, i saw. Very difficult– But i managed.”
Spy lowered the paper just enough to study him with raised brows.
“You did?” His surprise was evident.
Heavy leaned back in his chair, pride etched across his otherwise stoic face.
“Yes. Took me long time … but if you think about it… today’s riddle is not too difficult. Maybe a break might help you.”
And with that, the Russian had already reached over, plucked the journal from Spy’s hands, folded it, and tossed it aside. Normally, such a breach of etiquette would have earned anyone else a swift and cutting reprimand—but Spy held his tongue. Heavy was different. The Frenchman knew he meant no disrespect.
What Heavy hadn’t expected was what lay hidden beneath the cover of the discarded paper.
Spread neatly across the table were dozens of sketches: women of all kinds, their ages ranging from thirty to sixty, their faces marked by different features, ethnicities, and hairstyles. Some were carefully detailed, others hastily drawn, but each carried the same deliberate touch.
Heavy reached for one of the sheets, lifting it between his thick fingers. He studied the sketch in silence, his brow furrowing with thought as his eyes traced the lines.
“Is this about previous conversation?” Heavy questioned, showing Spy a specific sketch that intrigued him: The sketch Heavy picked up showed a woman in her late forties. Her hair was swept back into a neat bun, a few loose strands escaping to frame her face.
She wore a sharp jacket with wide lapels, the kind of fashion that spoke of confidence and old-world taste. Spy had shaded the lines around her eyes and mouth with unusual care, giving her an expression that was both stern and tired, as though she had seen much of life but refused to bend under it. The detail went deeper than Spy’s usual cool detachment; every pencil stroke seemed deliberate, as if he knew her features by memory rather than imagination.
“I like the way your mind works, Mikhail.” Spy said suddenly in Russian, catching the big man off guard. Heavy often forgot that the Frenchman spoke his native tongue at all. “Your question intrigued me. I began sketching at night, in my free time.”
“You are a very good artist,” Heavy replied in careful English, determined to practice his second language as much as possible. He set the sketch back down with surprising gentleness.
“Merci, my kind-hearted friend.” Spy finished his wine with a quiet sip, then gathered the drawings into a neat stack, tucking them into a folder and placing them back on the table.
He leaned back, tapping ash into the tray before continuing.
“You know… nobody else but us has thought about it the way you do. And it seems you have dragged me down this rabbit hole as well. I must admit, I am intrigued.
At first, I assumed the voice was pre-recorded—and perhaps that theory still holds some weight—but either way, someone must be behind it. Someone who knows our every move, who times her words to match the events on the battlefield. From taking the enemy intelligence… to capturing a point.”
By now Spy had risen from his chair, speaking with more intensity as he paced the room. He returned a few books to their shelves with one hand while the other absentmindedly flipped his butterfly knife open and shut, the rhythmic click of metal filling the silence between his words.
Heavy’s eyes followed him lazily, his massive frame sinking back into the chair. He let the man’s voice wash over him, though Spy’s theories stirred unease. The Frenchman’s suspicions became his own, pulling Heavy deeper into doubt.
Because it was true: throughout every battle, a woman’s voice had guided them. She called out their progress, their failures, their every step. None of them had ever questioned it. And whenever a mercenary had dared to bring up the mystery, the rest brushed it aside with dismissive answers, preferring to argue about strategies, weapons, or whatever foolishness crossed their minds before the next fight.
After his long rant, Spy finally began to slow down. He drew in a deep inhale, exhaled smoke, and turned toward the larger man.
“It is getting late, mon ami. I’ll see you tomorrow, oui? We may discuss this further.”
Heavy gave a short nod. “Goodnight, Spy.” That was all. He wasn’t a man of many words, and he never tried to stretch a conversation past its end—especially not when he’d been invited into someone’s private space and then politely dismissed.
He stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. Around him, the base was settling into its nightly rhythm:
Engineer had just left his workshop, flipping the switches to shut down the heavy machinery for the night. Scout was being pestered by a far too energetic Pyro, who bounced about proudly, arms full of plush toys. Soldier and Demoman were locked in their usual late-night debate; Heavy didn’t need to listen closely to know it was another of Soldier’s endless rants about the United States.
Medic, ever the perfectionist, was wiping down his medbay, muttering to himself as he sterilized instruments and packed away supplies. And outside the window, Heavy caught sight of Sniper extinguishing the fire he’d built beside his van, before slipping inside and pulling the door shut.
Was it strange that he was the only one bothered by the woman’s voice, constantly watching over them? Was he… weird for that? Spy had already admitted he was intrigued, but unlike the Frenchman, Heavy didn’t pry into everyone’s business. He kept to himself. If it didn’t concern him or someone he cared about directly, it wasn’t his problem.
Maybe that was it. He had spent so much of his life isolated, hidden away from danger with his family. Now, that same sense of exposure—being watched—tormented him, stealing his sleep.
It felt ridiculous. Losing hours of rest over a voice. Just a simple voice. Yet the clock glared back at him: 2 a.m. And it seemed everyone else had already surrendered to sleep… except Engineer, of course. He’d pretend to rest, switch off his machinery, then sneak back into the workshop in the dead of night. Heavy had even caught him once, sprawled across the kitchen counter, snoring lightly when he’d gotten up for a drink of water.
The thought made Heavy sigh. Everyone else could ignore the voice. He couldn’t.
It had been three weeks since the payphone had broken, and Heavy didn’t have it in him to ask Engineer to fix it like the others had. Three weeks without hearing from his family. Staying in touch had always been difficult, but now, with the broken phone, it felt almost impossible.
Sniper had damaged it during an argument with his father, slamming the receiver down with more force than necessary. At first, Engineer had been more than willing to repair it. But Scout, ever the instigator, had turned the situation into a full-blown argument, exaggerating every detail until Engineer finally declared they’d have to fix it themselves and stormed angrily back into his workshop.
Heavy knew Engie wouldn’t have refused his request, but the man was busy, and Heavy didn’t want to trouble him further. Miss Pauling had checked in on the base last week and noticed the broken payphone. She promised to have someone replace it, but god, it was taking forever.
He had grown more familiar with the voice of the mysterious lady now, and it refused to leave his mind. Shit, he thought. This was such a silly thing to lose sleep over, wasn’t it?
Heavy lazily stood up and strode over to his bookshelf. Most of the books there were either from home, gifted by Spy or the others, or things he had ordered and received from Miss Pauling to practice his English.
A specific book caught his tired eye. “If This Is a Man”.
He pulled it from the shelf and ran his fingers over the dusty cover, remembering why he had requested it.
He enjoyed reading the stories of other war veterans and survivors on his free time—how they had endured the worst, how they had survived, and how they had finally found a better life. Each story gave him hope, hope not just for himself, but for his family as well.
As time went on, Heavy found himself sinking deeper into the book. He became absorbed in the lives of the people it chronicled—their struggles, their endurance, the way they recalled their imprisonment. Their stories intertwined with his own memories, echoing familiar pains and fears, and for a while, it almost felt like he wasn’t alone in his sleepless nights.
But, inevitably, the book reached its end.
And it was nothing like he had imagined: the Russian had allowed himself to hope that the story might offer some relief, some reassurance, some glimpse of a better life at the final pages. He had fantasized about a redemptive conclusion, imagining that the hardships and horrors would eventually give way to light.
Instead, reality struck harshly. The book concluded with an analysis, clinical and unflinching, revealing that the author had taken his own life.
Heavy’s chest tightened, a cold weight pressing down on him. The hope he had nurtured for even a brief moment evaporated, replaced by the raw, bitter truth of despair.
He didn’t want to think about it.
He let out a slow, heavy sigh, the silence of the room pressing in as the last page closed, and the book went back into the shelf.
Chapter 2: Wake-up call
Notes:
ohh shit chapter 2 what the hell sorry. shoutout to the moots who motivate me to keep this shitty work going
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The alarm blared through the base, rattling the walls and dragging Heavy out of sleep.
Apparently he had dozed off at his desk, and now the fight was already calling for him. Today was defense—they had the advantage of time—but he’d slept through the first alarm. This was the second. Which meant they were already late.
He leapt from his chair, storming into the hall in nothing but a white tee and briefs, pounding on doors like a battering ram. Some of the mercenaries were already up—Scout and Soldier were bickering, Pyro gave him a cheerful wave (which he returned without slowing), and Medic shouted something unintelligible from the medbay.
At the workshop, he found Engineer dragging his feet, half-asleep, tools scattered around him.
“Engineer must move faster. Is time to fight,” Heavy rumbled, frowning at the man’s sluggish pace.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Engie yawned, rubbing his eyes as he bent to snap shut his toolbox.
“Woh—!”
Before he could finish, Heavy had already swung him up and over one shoulder, carrying both man and toolbox without a second thought. The Demoman slurred a complaint as he opened his door, only to also be dragged by the Russian with an arm looped around his waist, pressed against his side.
“Did baby men not hear alarm?” Heavy barked, his deep voice carrying both irritation and worry as he marched down the hall, two mercenaries slung against his massive frame like sacks of flour.
He dropped them off unceremoniously at the kitchen table, earning a groggy protest from one and a sleepy mumble from the other.
Heavy didn’t have the time or patience to scold them further: time was already slipping through their fingers.
He wasted no time In the changing room. He threw open his own locker with a clang and began dressing at a furious pace- slipping into his uniform, tightening his belt, slinging the familiar weight of the bullet belt across his chest- the same routine, everyday, just now at a faster pace.
Despite the rush, his hands were surprisingly steady, and when Sasha’s handle had finally touched his palm, a calm certainty instantly settled over him, like the world had clicked into place.
.
Slowly, the smell of nicotine began settling in the room– an unmistakable sign of Spy’s presence. And sure enough, leaning against the far wall, half-hidden in the curl of cigarette smoke, The man was already waiting, immaculate as always despite the early hour.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“Bonjour”, Spy said smoothly, as though the alarms and chaos had nothing to do with him.
“We are late, missed first alarm. No time for chat.” Heavy’s tone was curt, thick hands already busy with Sasha: he ran his calloused fingers over her body with almost religious care, checking for any scratches or marks. It was his morning ritual.
Ever since Soldier had once asked to “borrow” her for target practice, Heavy hadn’t trusted leaving her unattended, especially during night-time.
Spy took a long pause, watching the big man’s deliberate movements. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if Heavy’s words carried anger or simple urgency, but Spy studied him all the same, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brows as though reading a riddle in the lines of his face.
Then, without breaking his calm veneer, he exhaled another slow stream of smoke.
“The first alarm never went off, my friend. Something must be broken.” Spy sighed. He turned his head toward the doorway, watching the faint chaos spilling through the halls outside the locker room, the rest of the team scrambling into motion-
Scout, chaotic as ever, had already slammed back not one but TWO cans of Bonk! (Blutonium berry) and was ready to give it his best– jogging around the place, restless laps around the room and just unable to stand still for more than a second, mouth running just as fast as his legs as he occasionally yelled orders at Engie.
“Yo, hard-hat! Dispenser goes RIGHT here, Alright? Not like last time cause–Nah, nah nah, move it a little more to the left- No wait wait wait. Put the teleporter here instead wont’cha? Yeahh, that’s right! Perfect spot- unless that freakin’ Spy gets funny and camps in the corner like last time then we’re screwed, like SERIOUSLY screwed, so maybe you could-”
The texan shut him up with a swing of his wrench.
Soldier was already in drill-sergeant mode, chest puffed out, helmet gleaming under the kitchen lights as if he’d polished it just for this occasion. He had Demoman and Pyro standing at attention– or atleast as close to attention as an alcoholic mess like Demo and a critter like Pyro could manage after being woken up so suddenly.
“Aye, aye, laddie.” “Hddah!” Pyro clapped their hands and let out a muffled, cheerful squeal through the mask
The alarms cut out for a brief moment only to blare again– this was their third and final warning. Ten minutes left, and no more excuses.
The mercenaries filed out of the base, each man sliding into his role like gears in a machine.
Medic trailed close behind Heavy, Medigun already alive and casting it’s familiar glow along the Russian’s back- Quick, but not fast enough- Timing would be critical. RED had the advantage and if they burned Uber too early, it would mean nothing.
Forty-five seconds of invulnerability could be the difference between holding the line or being scattered across the battlefield in the blink of an eye.
“Remember– watch out for their Sniper.” Medic warned for atleast the fourth time this morning, tone sharp and clipped as if he’d already replayed every possible scenario in his head. It had happened before, but he was never keen on seeing his friend’s head explode.
“He is clever lately…” Medic murmured to himself.
“Mission begins in 7 minutes.”
The team was really locking into place now: Demoman, who only minutes ago had been stumbling through the haze of drink and sleep, now carried himself steady- Pyro bounced impatiently on their heels, fingers twitching around their flamethrower’s trigger like a child itching to play.
Soldier, predictably, had taken the lead and was barking orders into the void that no one listened to, but , somehow, his sheer presence forced the squad into focus anyway.
His war-wrath had grown sharper, crueler, ever since the bitter collapse of his friendship with Demoman and, honestly? EVERY single kill on the field seemed to fuel it further.
The way he ‘dispatched’ enemy Spies or Scouts made even Heavy wince sometimes—fists brutally smashing into ribs, gunshots at point-blank when a clean one would have sufficed, flying giblets and limbs all about- There was a brutality in him now, a rage that didn’t stop at victory, but clawed deeper, as though punishing the very idea of “the enemy” .
And when his path crossed with the RED Demoman? The violence took on a personal edge and god, did it get bad. Heavy could hardly watch without hissing under his breath, imagining the pain of every blow. Soldier never spoke of it, but everyone could see it: the fury wasn’t just tactical, it was personal vengeance.
The first day after their falling-out had been heavy with shame: Soldier had locked himself away, refusing to speak to anyone on the base for two whole days—save for the BLU Demoman, his old friend, the only one who could break through the silence.
But when the quiet finally shattered, it wasn’t into reconciliation. It was rage. Pure, boiling rage that Soldier poured out on the battlefield, a fire that burned so hot it consumed anyone in his way.
Even then-
“Mission begins in 4 minutes.”
The voice interrupted his train of thought. Heavy shook his head and rubbed his temples as the Medic announced him that the Ubercharge was ready to deploy whenever.
“Mission begins in 3 minutes.”
Tension hung thick in the air, as it always did before a match, each mercenary ready to fight: kill or be killed.
But the tension Heavy felt was different , something wasn’t right, and he could feel it in his chest, an itch he couldn’t scratch.
…
Where the hell is Sniper?
The New Zealander ran as fast as he could, huffing and puffing as his lanky legs carried him forward. Fuck, fuck, fuck- He’d missed all three alarms. Maybe now he’d finally learn not to sleep outside the base.
Had everyone else forgotten about him? Or did they just not care? Not that it would surprise him—he was only a pawn at the back of the battlefield, while the others took part in the main action. And- And- hell, they were probably still mad at him over the payphone incident. Shit, shit, ssshit. All HIS fault, not theirs, it’s all HIS fault. HE’S the one to blame.
It wasn’t their responsibility anyway. It was all on him . He should be waking himself up—he wasn’t a kid anymore, and his mother wasn’t there to greet him with breakfast and a good morning. He was on the job, and he had to be serious about it. No excuses.
As he drew closer to the action, Sniper dropped to the ground in an instant, the sharp crack of a rifle echoing in his ears. The enemy’s shot had come close—but surprisingly, it only clipped his hat.
“Fucking wanker,”
BLU Sniper hissed under his breath, teeth gritting. The enemy waved mockingly from across the field, shouting something he couldn’t quite make out, but the tone was unmistakable: pure humiliation.
Sniper adjusted his position, sliding his rifle into place with practiced precision. Calm now, but every muscle coiled, ready.
Surprisingly, he had found himself in a perfect blind spot:
Through his scope, he could see the enemy Heavy and Medic crouched behind a wall, confident they were safe from danger, ready to deploy their own Ubercharge. He wasn’t much of a lip-reader really, but it was crystal clear that they were engaged in some urgent discussion—probably plotting how to strike first. And why would he let that happen?
“Steady… steady…” Sniper muttered under his breath, the blue dot on his scope crawling slowly toward RED Heavy’s forehead, inch by inch, like a predator closing in on its prey.
Words couldn’t capture the rush of satisfaction that surged through him when the Medic finally noticed the blue dot—too late. His warning was cut short by the thunderous explosion of Heavy’s head.
Sniper exhaled slowly, a grim smile tugging at his lips. Victory, fleeting and perfect, had never felt so sweet to him.
Relief washed over the Russian as the immediate threat was neutralized- Sniper had made it in time.
Around him, the battlefield roared with motion—explosions shattered the ground, smoke curled into the sky, and the sounds of conflict echoed from every direction.
He adjusted his stance, scanning the chaos for the next danger. Figures moved unpredictably across the field, taking cover, darting forward, striking and retreating in rapid succession. Debris flew from distant blasts, dust and smoke mixing into a thick haze and sentry guns fired relentlessly.
Shockingly, today, the RED team struggled to mount an effective attack, their lack of coordination leaving gaps that the BLU team exploited with ease.
Despite having woken up in a frenzy—panicked, disorganized, and scrambling—BLU’s defense had held strong, and Heavy felt a quiet surge of pride at the sight.
Once it seemed safe enough, the BLU team began to push forward, advancing methodically while keeping the enemy trapped in their own base. The plan was simple but effective: hold the front line just long enough to keep RED contained, and the advantage would remain firmly in their hands.
For a while, it seemed as though BLU had the upper hand, holding the frontline steadily as RED faltered under the coordinated push. Rockets whistled overhead, Scout zipped around harassing the enemies and everything seemed to work in their favor.
But then something felt off. Heavy’s sharp eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the chaos with practiced precision, and a cold realization began to creep over him: the enemy Medic was nowhere to be seen. No flashes of the Medigun beam, no faint whirring hum of energy, no glimpse of the familiar white coat weaving through the fray. So where was he?
Previously, Heavy had assumed the Medic had been taken down, but the pause in the fight was suspicious. Something was being planned, something he couldn’t see yet, and the creeping unease from earlier settled over him once again.
And then it happened. A glimmer of light, a firm, confident command and the unmistakable charge of an uber.
He barely had any time to register it before the beam hit the enemy Demoman, who surged forward with unstoppable momentum, BLU’s defenses crumbled almost instantly, starting from their Engineer’s buildings.
Rockets and bullets that had held the line just a few seconds before became practically irrelevant as the Demo carved right through the team, unstoppable and terrifying.
Heavy had attempted to fight back with all his might, but the force of the onslaught was too great, and soon enough, one by one, his teammates fell.
Finally he hit the ground, injured and struggling to breath, chest heaving with each ragged gasp. Through blurred vision, Heavy watched as the enemy pressed their advantage, cutting through the remnants of BLU’s lines and capturing the first control point.
Heavy rolled onto his side, grunting in pain as he tried to pull himself up, pain lancing through his limbs. Blood ran freely from his nose and he spat onto the dirt; a thick, dark streak marked the ground beneath him. His ears were ringing from the explosions and everything had become a blur.
Somewhere behind him, the click of boots echoed sharply. Heavy’s instincts screamed at him to get up and fight, but the pain in his body was louder, and all he could do was twist his head.
“Ohh, they’re gonna have ta glue you back together.” The Demoman shook his head slowly, clicking his tongue in a mix of sympathy and exasperation, like a mother watching a child tumble and scrape themselves. There was a crooked sort of fondness in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of just how badly Heavy had taken the hit, even amidst the chaos of the battlefield, as if he felt bad for the larger man or something.
Or at least, that’s what Heavy thought—until Demoman’s loud, booming laugh filled the air.
Heavy couldn’t react.
Too tired, too fucking tired. No way he could pick himself up now.
His massive body slumped against the dirt, the world tilting and the ringing in his ears gradually becoming louder, drowning out every sound of the battlefield—the booming gunfire, the explosions, even Demoman’s laughter.
His consciousness began to slip away, each heartbeat slower than the last, until the world felt like it was fading into shadow.
And yet, amid the roaring silence and the chaos of fading awareness, one sound cut through with unnatural clarity.
It wasn’t Demoman’s laughter. It wasn’t the whine of rockets or the distant screams of the fallen.
It was that voice again. Clear, sharp, and accusing.
"You’ve killed them all!"
Notes:
what th hekllllllllllll um. #thanks for reading
Chapter 3: Within your rights
Notes:
Btw this is part 1 Technically.
sorry for the wait
Chapter Text
It was a failure.
It wasn’t their first, really, and it wouldn’t be their last.
Everyone on the team knew the sting of defeat, even if they didn’t talk about it.
Sometimes the battles would end up in a stalemate, both sides retreating to their own base with confusion and bitter disappointment- but those were rare.
More often than not, tradition dictated that the victors massacre the losers in a final, humiliating sweep, and today the BLU team had been on the wrong end of that tradition.
Heavy sat slouched at the mess hall table, lazily prodding at his plate with the dull scrape of a fork. His massive hand moved without thought, as if detached from his mind.
The food wasn’t bad- far from it actually, he had helped with the cooking:
He and Engineer had worked together in the kitchen earlier, and both men knew their way around a skillet, but the weight of failure made every bite taste like… shit.
Scout wasn’t running his mouth like he always did, Soldier wasn’t barking half-mad orders at the others and Demoman too was quiet, fingers tapping rhythmically against his bottle of Scrumpy... the silence was almost worse than the fighting.
Hell, even Pyro, usually buzzing with restless energy, sat slumped against Heavy’s arm, their gas-mask tilted downward as if staring into the void of their own plate: the sight made Heavy frown.
“Ah, well,” Engineer finally broke the stillness, laying his fork aside with a soft ‘clink’.
Every head turned, grateful for someone else to speak first.
“Better luck next time. This ain’t our first loss, and sure as hell won’t be our last. Don’t let it kick our asses, alright?”
The Texan stood with a weary groan, making his way to the counter to fetch a crate of beer.
"Yo, Engie’s right,” Scout piped up, a spark of his usual energy returning as he jabbed a thumb toward himself.
“We’ll get ‘em back, I promise. It’s all ‘cause of that dumb Medic anyway- Oh, Oh, Oh! and Spy?
-Yeah, Spy, you didn’t do NUTHIN’ out there!” He gave the masked man a too-friendly shove, half-joking, half-accusatory.
Spy exhaled sharply through his nose, the groan muffled behind his cigarette as he resisted the urge to bury a knife in the boy’s ribs.
"Perhaps one day,” Spy started coolly, cutting a piece of sausage with surgical precision,
“you will learn to recognize your own mistakes, instead of inventing ours.” His tone was flat, his gaze never leaving the plate.
Sure, the enemy Spy had outmatched him this time (and the time before…and the time before that…)—but Scout had no right to tell him how to do his darn job!
Scout’s jaw clenched, the words already forming on his tongue. But before he could spit back an insult and set the table ablaze with yet another shouting match, the door slammed open with a force that rattled the silverware.
-
“Ay, Mickey!” Demoman’s face lit up with drunken delight as he shot up from his seat, nearly toppling over in the process.
He staggered toward the tall figure in the doorway and slung an arm around him with sloppy affection.
“Aboot time ye came ‘roun here! Been a wee bit, hasnae it, lad?” He grinned wide, jabbing a finger against the man’s chest with his index finger, as if to prove he wasn’t a hallucination brought on by too much alc’.
Sniper gave a small, lopsided smile and, before he could say anything, Demo was already dragging him across the mess hall like an overly excited toddler seeing their best-friend.
“Come on, sit yerself down,” Demo insisted, pulling him toward the only empty chair.
Without hesitation, he slid his own untouched plate across the table, shoving it into Sniper’s hands:
Heavy often forgot that the Scot didn’t handle solid food too well (and he would apologize every single time) but at least now it wouldn’t go to waste.
Sniper found himself wedged between Engineer and Scout, much to the Bostonian’s annoyance.
Scout groaned dramatically, leaning back with a scowl.
“Wow. Actually forgot you existed for a sec,” Scout muttered, turning in his chair to size up the lanky man beside him.
“Where were you this morning?” His tone was sharp, more accusation than curiosity.
Sniper scratched at the back of his neck, sheepish.
“Didn’t catch the first alarm—”
“Oh, didn’t catch the other two either? My GOD!”
Scout cut him off before he could finish, throwing his arms up and glancing around the table with a wild expression.
“Are you guys hearin’ this?! Three alarms, and this joker still oversleeps!”
He waited, expecting for somebody to back him up and gang up on the New Zealander, but the table stayed silent:
Engineer was focused on his beer, Soldier was muttering into his mashed potatoes, Pyro’s head was still tilted on Heavy’s arm, and Spy didn’t so much as glance up from his plate.
No one took the bait, too drained from the loss to indulge Scout’s usual habit of picking fights.
Scout huffed, crossing his arms tight across his chest, then leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated groan. “Unbelievable..."
Not long after another awkward stretch of silence, Sniper cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat.
Eyes, still covered by his sunglasses, were on his food rather than the others.
“Listen,” he began, voice low and hesitant, “someone trashed my room. Would really appreciate it if one of you let me crash in theirs for the night.”
It wasn’t an unreasonable request, really, but the weight of it hung heavy in the air.
Everyone knew the couch was already claimed almost every night by a drunk Demoman, who guarded his own room like a knight hoarding treasure.
Sniper’s quarters, courtesy of Scout’s pranks and Pyro’s mischief, were a wreck. And after missing the alarms earlier, he wasn’t about to risk sleeping outside again for sure.
The silence that followed made it clear no one was jumping at the chance.
Then, without hesitation, Heavy spoke up.
“You can sleep in mine,” he responded almost dismissively, as if it were no great favor.
Sniper’s shoulders eased, and he gave a faint, grateful smile. He dipped his head politely. “Thanks, mate,” he murmured, before returning to pick at his food.
Heavy didn’t miss the subtle relief on the man’s face.
He knew the others might not have been so quick to welcome Sniper in—not after the payphone debacle, and definitely not after this morning’s fiasco. Heavy didn’t want the New Zealander feeling more cut off than he already did, in fact, Heavy knew how it felt to be cut off quite well.
“You know, that couch’s gotta be moved anyhow,” Engineer drawled, leaning back in his seat.
“Miss Paulin’s comin’ in tomorrow with our orders, and we’re gonna need space for that new water cooler she’s bringin’.”
“Miss P. is passin’ by?!” Scout practically leapt out of his chair, cutting Engie off mid-sentence.
His voice cracked with excitement as he bolted toward the wall calendar:
Being the weirdo he is, he always tracked her schedule like a hawk, counting the days until she showed up with new contracts, items and, more importantly, checked on the state of the base.
“That’s right.” Engie muttered, shaking his head with a half-smile, clearly used to Scout’s antics by now.
-
The morning after, the mercenaries were spared from the rude awakening of the blaring alarms.
Heavy stirred from his makeshift bed—a stiff wooden chair in the kitchen he’d taken so Sniper could rest properly in his room: his back ached, but he didn’t mind. A favor was a favor.
The low growl of an engine rumbled through the walls, pulling him fully awake. Heavy rose, stretching his shoulders, and stepped outside to investigate.
“Oh, good morning, Heavy!”
The voice was light but clipped, professional yet friendly, the kind of tone that always carried a hint of business no matter how casual the setting.
“Hello, Miss Pauling.”
Heavy greeted her with a nod, eyes sliding to the noisy truck parked just beyond the entrance: a crew of men were unloading crates stacked with supplies ranging from ammunition to the team’s personal belongings—among them, the water cooler Engie had mentioned the night before.
A sudden bump nearly knocked Heavy off balance.
Pyro darted past him, squeaking happily as they retrieved a large bag stuffed with brightly colored plushies.
They tugged out a lilac one and shoved it eagerly into Miss Pauling’s hands.
“For me? Aww, thanks, buddy!” she chuckled softly, smiling warmly as she ruffled the top of Pyro’s mask.
The firebug let out a delighted giggle, a muffled “huddah!” spilling from behind the mask before they ran back inside with their new treasures.
No sooner had Pauling turned to reach for another box than Scout came swaggering over, elbowing Heavy aside once again.
“Oh, hey, Miss Pauling!” he grinned, voice slick with forced charm, one hand combing through his hair as he leaned on the truck.
Heavy could tell the kid had woken early to clean himself up, hair combed and shirt smoothed… probably because normally he’d still be drooling into his pillow at this hour. He exhaled heavily through his nose, unimpressed.
“What brings you ‘round these parts?” Scout pressed, tilting his head just a little too close for comfort.
Woah.
Pauling stepped back half a pace, but her smile didn’t falter.
“Funny that you ask. I’m actually on a state-mandated vacation!”
She shifted her weight and handed Heavy a small box, which he took carefully.
Inside was a collection of spices he’d requested weeks ago—rare things, the sort his mother used in her cooking back home. Heavy cradled the box in his hands for a moment longer than he intended. He missed his mother’s cooking.
“However,” she continued, straightening her glasses and adjusting the papers tucked under her arm.
“I’ve just received your new orders. I thought I could stop by, hand these over personally, and check in on how you’re all doing.”
And so Pauling’s inspection went on, clipboard in hand, writing down notes as the workmen shuffled back and forth.
Heavy and Engineer helped them out by carrying the bulkier crates into storage, their footsteps echoing through the hall while the others lingered around, half-curious, half-indifferent.
Just as she ticked off another box on her sheet, a slim, gloved hand rested lightly on her shoulder, making her tense up.
“Miss Pauling,” came the low, velvety drawl.
The french man inclined his head ever so slightly.
“There is something I’d like to discuss with you.”
He guided the assistant to step aside with him, away from the bustle of crates and curious ears.
Pauling exhaled, steadying herself, and let him lead: anybody in the room knew better than to mistake his politeness for harmlessness.
With Spy, every word, every gesture, carried weight. Whatever he wanted to discuss wasn’t going to be casual small talk.
.
Heavy watched as the two slipped away, curiosity tugging at him.
Was Spy about to bring up their talk about their employer? And if he did… was that even a good idea in the first place?
His thoughts were cut short by the sound of a strained grunt.
Oh.
He’d let himself get distracted, leaving Engie to wrestle the water cooler alone.
“Sorry,” Heavy muttered, stepping back in and wrapping his hands firmly around the weight. Engineer let out a breath of relief, shaking his head but saying nothing as the burden lightened in his arms.
Chapter 4: I said "No"
Notes:
hi! Part 2 of chapter 3 out ;)
i wanted to add: not only dont they know who the Administrator is, but they have no idea what Australium is either.
also this is shorter bc part 1 is alr there
Chapter Text
…
…
… 174, 175, 176, 177.
174…175…176…
Her fingers moved quickly along the line of folders as she counted.
…177…178. She froze.
Where’s 178?
Her stomach dropped. That folder was important, way too important.
178.
She looked around for a moment.
…
Maybe she messed up.
1..2..3..4…
…
“Spy? Spy, Listen, we should really make this quick. I’ve got somewhere to be, and I can’t afford to be late.”
Miss Pauling’s voice stayed calm, polite, sitting down as she slid her clipboard and folders into her bag with practiced ease.
“I won't be long.” Spy responded coldly. He reached up for a bottle of wine resting on the shelf before setting down in front of her.
The smoking room- Spy’s smoking room, wrapped around them like a curtain: the perfect spot for private conversations.
The man swirled the wine in his glass quietly, but, when he finally spoke, his tone was way too casual for Pauling's liking.
“Mademoiselle,” he began, “Each battle there is a voice. A woman, sharp, precise. She sees everything, as though she is perched on our shoulders.”
He paused for a moment.
“Tell me, Miss Pauling, who is she?”
Her hand stilled for a split second, barely enough to notice (unless one was looking for it).
“That's classified, Spy and you know as well as I do. The advertisement spelled it out. We don't ask private questions about our jobs, not unless we want to keep them.”
Pauling adjusted her glasses, keeping her tone professional as she spoke, but her eyes flicked to him briefly, just long enough to reveal to the man that she knew this question didn't come out of “simple curiosity.”
He was testing boundaries. And she was not liking it. Not one bit.
“I really need to be somewhere,”
Spy rose as she did, unhurried, placing the wine back on the shelf as he did.
“But of course..i only wonder…” He fixed his suit with deliberate care, smiling faintly.
“If a man doesn't know who he serves, is he truly serving at all, Miss Pauling?”
It would be a shame if I began to feel… untethered, in my duties.”
And that's all it took for Pauling's polite mask to falter.
“I know what you're doing.” she stated firmly.
“I know what you're doing, and I can't give you that answer. Not today— Not ever. I'm gonna leave now.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder, voice steady despite the uncomfortable weight of the man's gaze.
“Maybe one day we can discuss something else.”
Spy watched her for a beat, then gave a theatrical bow, grin curling sharp as his knife.
“Another time, then. Au revoir.”
The smoke of his cigarette hung in the air as he opened the door for her, leading her out the room and waving goodbye.
.
He watched carefully as Miss Pauling and Spy emerged from the latter’s smoking room: he had imagined their conversation would stretch on longer, and the fact that it hadn’t only left him more unsettled.
“Oh, Heavy?”
The giant blinked out of his dissociation, looking down to see Medic beside him.
“Vould you be so kind as to feed the doves today, mein Schatz?” the German asked absentmindedly.
Before Heavy could answer, one of the doves had already fluttered down, landed squarely atop his head and settled there with a contented “coo!”.
“OK. Will feed baby birds.” Heavy mumbled, a smile tugging at his lips. It was as if the creature had understood the word “feed” and taken him up on it instantly.
Slowly but carefully, the Russian llifted his strong hand, waiting for the dove to hop onto his fingers before lowering it and stroking its soft feathers with unusual gentleness.
Medic, humming to himself as he tinkered with his medigun on the table, turned at the sound. The sight of Heavy cradling the bird softened his sharp features, pulling a genuine smile to his face.
“I think she likes you,” Medic said warmly, before turning back to gather an old medigun prototype and a battered backpack.
Slinging both over his shoulders, he started toward the door.
“Doktor needs help?” Heavy asked, half-rising, ready to put the bird aside.
“Ach, no, no. Just bringing these to Engineer’s workshop,”
Medic replied briskly, though his voice carried a thread of fire.
“We have plans to upgrade it. I will not let the RED team outdo us on every field… especially not medicine...”
His teeth clenched as he said it, the words more of a vow than an explanation.
Before Heavy could offer a reply, Medic was already out the door, muttering to himself with manic determination, making the former chuckle.
The man could be a 'little' mad when it came to his work, but after their last humiliating loss, his drive to prove himself made sense. Heavy still loved him for it.
Turning back to his task, he searched the messy drawers of the medbay until he found the bag of birdseed Medic usually kept.
Pouring a handful into his palm, he waited patiently as the doves fluttered down one by one, their beaks pecking at the seeds with eager precision. Ticklish.
.
The room had fallen into stillness, broken only by the soft coos of the doves and the faint banter outside, where Scout and Soldier bickered over their makeshift game of baseball.
Heavy let himself sink into that silence, basking in its weight.
Quiet always brought him peace; noisy rooms were never his strength.
The only noise he could ever truly welcome was back home in Siberia—the familiar chatter and laughter of his sisters:
That kind of noise? He could live in it forever.
But mercenaries shouting, clattering, brawling?
Brutish.
Suffocating.
Silence was better.
Just… quiet.
…
…
Way too quiet.
Heavy’s brow tightened.
Has the door always been closed?
He freezed for a beat and replayed the moment in his head.
Medic’s arms were full.
He hadn’t closed it.
Then who had?
In one sudden, decisive motion, Heavy kicked the medical bed aside. The loud crash rang through the medbay, and from beneath the toppled frame came a muffled grunt.
“Urgh—!!!”
The cloth draped over the bed slipped down, clinging to an unseen head, catching on something invisible.
Heavy’s instincts roared: Spy.
He lunged forward without hesitation, his hand clamping tight around a throat that wasn’t there, until the shimmer broke, and the cloaking device fizzled out with a crackle.
“Ghk—”
Their own Spy came into view, pinned and coughing.
Heavy held him for a beat longer before letting go, but there was no apology in the release, and no softness in his stare.
The Frenchman straightened slowly, smoothing his suit with shaking fingers, the wine of arrogance quickly slipping back into his voice.
“Mon dieu… you are… far too paranoid, mon ami.”
Heavy said nothing, his glare heavy with distrust, hands flexing as though deciding whether to seize the man again.
Paranoid or not, his instincts had been right.
“Told Spy not to do it before, only gonna get himself hurt.”
The Frenchman knew he was right: sharp instincts and paranoia were no flaw. They were survival, carved into Heavy from years of hiding his family from the world’s dangers.
Spy sighed, almost dramatically.
“I was hiding from the Doctor. I have something I’d like to share with you, but first…” his gloved hand gestured to the overturned bed. “you’ll need to pick that up.”
Heavy rolled his eyes with a low grunt, but did as asked.
He heaved the bed upright again, the metal frame screeching against the floor before settling back into place. Then he crossed his arms, expression hard, waiting.
Spy’s lips curled faintly as he reached into his coat. “Tell me, mon ami… do you know what Australium is?”
Heavy frowned.
“What?”
Without another word, Spy dropped a thick folder onto the bed. It slapped open on impact, scattering yellowed papers and glossy polaroids across the sheets and floor. They slid like fallen cards, fanning out at Heavy’s boots.
Heavy blinked at the sudden mess, crouching to pick up the first paper.
As he did so, Spy’s voice carried on, low and deliberate, as he paced the medbay like a mentor circling a class.
“Australium. Miss Pauling was wrapped in a case with the U.S. Senate itself. The CEO of the company that supplies our weapons, your precious Sasha included. And one other party…” Spy tapped the folder with a finger.
“Her name, her signature—censored, every last trace. All tied to Australium.”
Heavy’s eyes narrowed as he studied the document:
The others' names were printed clearly, but across the lines where the mysterious figure had been questioned, entire sentences had been struck out with thick black ink. Only a few fragments were visible, and a specific phrase caught his eye.
‘Eighteen idiots.’
Heavy scowled, the words sitting uneasily in his chest.
Spy didn’t stop moving, his polished shoes clicking softly as he went on.
“We don’t know what Australium truly is yet, but it is valuable enough to steal from the government, to cover up in trials, to hoard in silence. Worth killing over. This is no longer about a voice barking orders at us, nor a war for gravel, Heavy. It is much, much larger.”
Heavy didn’t answer right away.
He sat still, jaw set, as he pieced together Spy’s words like fragments of a shattered mirror.
But another thought pressed heavier, darker, cutting through the fog.
His gaze snapped up.
“Where did you get this folder?”
Spy paused.
“What?”
“Where did you get this information, Spy. Who’s folder is this?”
Heavy rose to his feet, closing in the distance with the man and looming over him.
“Did you steal this?”
Spy didn’t respond immediately , he simply crouched to gather the scattered polaroids, slipping them back into the folder with practiced calm.
“I did what I had to do, Heavy. It gave us the answers we needed.”
“What's the matter with you?!”
“Is this not what you wanted? What we wanted? Answers to our questions?”
Spy’s voice almost broke into a shout, but he kept calm.
“It does not matter how we arrived here. The point is, we finally have a lead. Proof that this is far bigger than we initially thought.”
His eyes glinted behind the mask, sharp and convinced.
“We are closer to knowing who she is.”
Heavy shook his head firmly. “No.”
Spy tilted his head, brow raised beneath the mask. “No?”
“Is too much.” Heavy’s voice was final, the weight of it like a closing door.
“Heavy, you-”
“I said no. Is too dangerous, question was already answered. The voice is of mysterious woman, that is it. I do not wish to know anymore of this.”
Spy knew better than to push, especially when it came to Heavy. Irritating him any further would only drive him deeper into stubborn silence.
With a faint sigh, he straightened the folder under his arm.
“Very well, then… I shall lead this investigation myself.” he said, voice even.
“But… if you should change your mind, we-”
He turned his head.
The room was already empty.
ArcherWolf100 on Chapter 1 Sat 30 Aug 2025 12:41AM UTC
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crescentsun_s on Chapter 4 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:42PM UTC
Last Edited Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:43PM UTC
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angermate on Chapter 4 Sun 07 Sep 2025 06:57AM UTC
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