Chapter Text
Three months. That’s all Mann Co. was giving them.
Three months, ninety days, and approximately two thousand, one hundred sixty hours.
Scout held the envelope in his hands tightly, then slammed it down on the dining hall table like it was a bomb about to explode in his hands. It had sounded like a scattergun blast—of which, he would never hear again after today.
He expected the whole room to burst out in flames, anger, rage. Instead, it froze.
Well, mostly froze.
“Are you guys even hearin’ this?” Scout yelled, echoing against the walls. “Three—three months! That’s it—ninety freakin’ days an’ then—” He waved the envelope like it was a white flag in a losing battle. “We’re done! The base is closing. Am I mute? C’mon, you guys can’t all be impartial!”
Heavy looked up from his plate, raising a brow. “I do not understand reason for this ‘done.’ We work. We eat. We live here. All gone...for what?”
“Mon dieu…” Spy murmured, lighting another Mannborough. He exhaled grey smoke from his mouth, scanning the runner through the vapor. “Must you children scream over a piece of paper?”
Scout shot him a look, snarling at his apathy. “A piece a'paper? Right, captain obvious. It ain’t just a freakin’ piece o’ paper, monsieur. It’s the end of all of…this! We live here. Spy, us! All of us! Where are we supposed to go, back to the real world? Have you seen the real world? It sucks!”
Medic leaned in the chair—picking at his food with a type of clinical precision. It was a little similar to how he dissected others—Scout knew, because he had walked in on it once. A little like walking in on two people having sex.
Shockingly, the former was less disgusting. Maybe it was because shoving baboon uteruses into people wasn't incredibly intimate.
The doctor seemed to be mildly interested—or at least, observant—but it was impossible to tell if he was worried or running calculations.
Pyro’s response was a simple muffled sound, which, it’s not like Scout could have expected any more out of him. He didn't even attempt translation.
Demo slammed his fist on the table shakily, his single eye was noticeably bloodshot. His glass of Scrumpy rattled against the wood. “What kinda sick joke is this?" he yelled. "I didn’t stay at Mann Co. livin' like a rat in a bloody cage just to get kicked out like some street beggar! Where am I to go, eh? The McD's?"
The laborer rubbed his chin in true engineer fashion. His goggles hid any sort of worry that he might've been feeling. “We’ll hafta start looking at…I dunno. New living quarters, perhaps? Might as well start plannin’ early. Rent checks don't grow on no trees.”
The thought itself sent a shiver down Scout’s spine. Rent. damn you, Engineer. He hadn’t even thought about having to find somewhere new to live. Moving back to Southie with his ma—despite how he loved her—sounded like a freakish nightmare scenario. He was a mercenary, a track star. He wasn't some dude who crashed on couches and shared bathrooms with seven other people...anymore, at least.
Sniper leaned against the wall, nonchalant and quiet, as always. His arms were crossed over his bulky vest. “Typical Mann Co. nonsense—could’ve seen it miles away. Admin's been way stricter with our contract deadlines. Three months? Plenty o’ time to sort ourselves out.”
“Don’t start being all ‘calm’ an’ collected! That’s my job!” Scout jabbed a finger at him. "We're talkin' bout the end of the line here, Snipes!"
“NONSENSE!” A loud voice, belonging to the soldier shouted. “WE SHALL RISE TO THE CHALLENGE LIKE PATRIOTS TO MUSSOLINI! WE WILL BUILD NEW TRENCHES. WE SHALL EAT AND SLEEP IN THE DIRT AND WE WILL LIKE IT."
"Patriots to Mussolini?" Scout parroted, "man, that don't even make sense!"
“Scout, maybe you not yell so much?” Heavy grunted. "Head is aching."
“I’m not shoutin’, I’m announcin’. Important stuff, big guy.”
The room fell into chaos. Everyone talked over each other—Engie rattled about apartments, logistics, and infrastructure. Smart jargon. The Frenchman went on about "bluffing" while checking his watch every few seconds like he had somewhere important to be, which Scout knew he didn't.
Scout leaned back into his chair and let out a sigh that got quickly drowned out by the noise.
“Ninety…freakin’ days.”