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No. 3577
SUDDENLY, ACCENTS. EVERYWHERE!
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If curiosity was a plague, denial was a tumor. Stowing away in them all, slumbering until it was stirred like an attack dog when something for it to latch onto strayed to close. You never “caught” it; it was always there, waiting to come out of remission. Denial, conversely, was just as poisonous as it was alluring; the less painful way to go, blissful in its ignorance.
Crowded outside the infirmary, everyone on RED team, save the stern-faced Medic, were falling into deceptively safe arms of their malignant denial. As they resorted to such coping mechanisms as finding the floor an infinitely more interesting thing to look at then facing each other, they were, in Medic’s eyes, being pathetic. Demoman, at least, had the nerve enough to speak, putting voice to their disbelief.
“Do ye wannah run that by us again, doc?”
Medic, adjusting his glasses back onto the crook of his noise, as if it required more attention than his colleges, sighed heavily. "Her-…/Pyro/ ist pregnant.” Medic could almost hear the gag-crickets chirping as he looked at all their faces.
Soldier, scratching his scalp under that nigh irremovable helmet of his, was in the lead for the most thoroughly confused. “Er…come again that, private, you’re losing us, here.” He said, as apparently Medic was speaking in some indefinable moon language.
“Mein Gott,” Medic slapped a hand over his forward, minding his glasses, “Pyro ist /pregnant/, as in, has a uterus, as in about sech months, Heavy’s conschtant ‘team ist babies’ insults are about have some credit to zem! Vot are you /not/ underschtanding?”
His outburst was returned with vacant stares that had only marginally let up. Engineer then stepped in on his team’s behalf, “Go easy on 'em, doc,” his level Texan accent buffering the daggers being thrown at him in Medic’s stare, “this ain’t yer typical news. We’re just…shocked, is all.”
Medic’s hackles lowered, Engineer was almost insufferable in his peace-keeping abilities. Medic’s voice lowered to a softer growl, “I vas not exactly exschpecting zis myself, Herr Engineer, in fact…” His voice trailed; pressing a gloved thumb between his teeth, Medic started pacing with a deeply contemplative expression, like he was staring at a puzzle. “Ist strange, very strange zat zis could’ve have gone unnoticed for such a time. Und not just za pregnancy, za mere fact Herr Pyro ist no ‘Herr’ at all’.”
Before anyone could say anything, Scout, slowly coming out of a shellshock-like daze, wasted no time at pointy fingers. “Yeah, I have theory. Spy here sucks at his job.” He accused, jabbing a thumb in Spy’s direction.
Spy, looking nothing short of completely affronted, promptly got right into Scout’s face. “Excusez-moi, boy? Are you trying to imply some’sing?” He barked, stabbing a finger into Scout’s chest.
“Yes, what is leetle Scout saying?” Heavy rumbled from his corner of the horseshoe.
Scout rolled his shoulders back and his chest puffed out in a primal display of confidence. Smacking away Spy’s hand, Scout went off; “You heard me, frogs legs,” Scout’s voice started to rise, drawing in everyone’s attention, “way I see it, if you were as half as good as you say, you coulda figured out something as simple as one’a your co-workers havin’ freakin’ girl parts!”
Spy opened his mouth, but Scout was off again before he could’ve even gotten a syllable out.
“Unless you /did/ know and you were a sick enough bastard to knock him up!”
Shock crossed Spy’s face, only to be quickly replaced with rage that reddened his face so deeply that you couldn’t tell his skin from his mask. “’Ow /dare/ you, you little-”
“Hey man, you’re the ‘lady killah master a’ espionage,’ betcha sniffed him out faster than you could say bonk.” Scout was damned and determined not to let Spy finish a sentence.
“You shouldink be using ze male pronouns regarding Herr…ze Pyro.” Medic supplied, going unheard due to the fact Scout just dropped a very serious blame.
Hands balled into fists and planted firmly on his hips, Scout was properly posed in the ‘well, what-do-you-have-say’ position, waiting in the awkward hush he created for Spy to fill it. Spy was shaking from head to toe, and it wasn’t because he exhausted his hoard of cigarettes before the supply train could refill it. Taking a step forward, he got so close to Scout’s face, he could smell the caffeine spilling out of the quick little bastard’s breathe. Brows furrowed, nostrils flared, his voice a venomous hiss; “Listen ‘ere, boy, stalking you violent monkeys was not in my job description and if eet were and I ‘ad even za slightest clue, I would never, /never/ act in such a manner.”
That was when the suspicious murmurs started and Spy began to notice the half-convinced looks being shared between the rest of his colleagues. He turned to them all, in complete disbelief as they didn’t even look him in the eye.
“I do not believe zis, I do not believe all of you! ‘Ow can you /listen/ to zis…zis /CHILD/ and ’is empty accusations!” He would later admit that stamping his foot while saying this was a bit much.
“It is a bit off that you wouldn’t be knowin’, this, mate. Can’t blame us for not thinking you’ve done a bit a dirty laundry searching ‘ere.” Sniper pointed out in a quiet, apprehensive tone. This did very little to alleviate Spy’s hissyfit.
“/’ow dare you,/” it was Sniper’s turn to get a face full of pissed-off Spy, “I will ‘ave you know, ‘ad I known, I wouldn’t ‘ave touched zat…zat…/soulless abomination/ even if eet was Audrey ‘epburn under zere!”
After his impassioned defense, the red flush started to fade from Spy’s face, and, after giving one indignant tug of his pressed notched lapels, excited a squeak of expensive Italian leather-on-laminate flooring as he turned sharply on his heels to leave. Stomping off with as much dignity as one could after such a spat, almost made a clean getaway until someone had the poor judgment to ask where he was going. This was, apparently, the /worst/ possible thing to ask him.
Spy’s stride went unbroken and his gaze firmly planted away from his colleagues as he gave them a rather snappish answer;
“My /job/, mon ami,” he tensed visibly with every word, but kept walking, “While you’re all standing around ‘ere, gossiping like schoolgirls, someone needs to watch zat briefcase and make sure it doesn’t disappear like all za ozzers.”
The weighty metal door leading to the stairwell out slammed, and he was gone. It was a slap across the face for all of them. While this was all indeed a very serious matter and a shockingly revelation, they were letting it take precedence over a graver situation that effected them as a whole. No one had really talked about Respawn since the morning briefing and, while it had been their plan, what to actually do with their recently acquired intelligence had stopped there. Fact was, they had little clue what to do with the gamble they were making taking matters into their own hands.
They had nothing. It wasn’t so much fear of retribution as it was the conundrum of what to actually /do/ with the briefcase. The bothersome Pandora’s Box they had on their hands was proving to be an absolute bitch to open. It had been agreed upon at the mission’s end that this required a deft touch, and as little damage to the briefcase as possible was required. Picking the lock has proved fruitless, and random numbers rolled onto its numbered lock also did nothing. They couldn’t crack it, and more hands-on (and explosive) means were out of the question. As of now, all they could do was guard it and keep it out of reach of the invisible forces that would come to collect once their backs were turned, and it was absolutely maddening.
“Vell,” began Medic, clapping his hands together and speaking in a chipper tone as if this was all a job well done; “if you vould all kindly get za hell out, I have von problem too many on mein hands. Go play var room elsevhere.” Preemptively dodging another dispute among their ranks, he disappeared back into the infirmary.
Medic waited next to door until the small crowd outside gradually diminished to nothing. He understood their bemusement, or in a case or two, annoyance; their little boys’ club was no longer and that certainly would be the cause of some discomfort among them, not to mention the questions that still hung in the air. But the last thing he needed was them to be distracted, especially when it got in the way of /his/ job. He hoped shooing them away would give them incentive enough to concentrate on the problems that could be solved now. Or at least argue /away/ from him. Either way, he was satisfied. Now free to go about his business, Medic pulled his shockingly red gloves at their brims, tighter against his hands and went to go check in on Pyro.
Pyro was coming out from under the influence of the sedatives Medic had administered earlier. Still masked and mostly suited, though, telltale but subtle movements were his only hints that Pyro was waking up. Waiting for her to regain lucidity, Medic mulled over things a bit. It was obvious why now, yes, but this was one of only two times Pyro had ever been in the infirmary. The first time was when they had all just arrived; Medic got one glove off for a routine injection before the little manic clawed his face and dashed off. It all made sense now; meals taken to personal quarters, waking up at odd hours of the night to the sounds of the shower room being used, never taking off that suit even in the rec. room. Pyro’s determinedness was almost admirable.
Medic’s train of thought was brought to a halt when he noticed Pyro up and sitting on the edge of the examination table. He (despite Medic’s best efforts, he still couldn’t get out of the bait of using male pronouns) must’ve suited back up when Medic was too busy being lost in own thoughts. Sitting there, legs swinging slightly, you could’ve confused Pyro with an apprehensive child in a doctor’s office despite the bulky, flame-retardant suit. Had it been anyone else, they would’ve at least heisted with what Medic did next.
The sound of the latex of his gloves striking against the rubbery material of Pyro’s mask as his open palm struck was considerably louder and more dramatic then the actual strike would’ve produced under “normal” circumstances, but it certainly jarred Pyro out of any lingering effects of the sedative. Medic was wholly unapologetic in what followed for a tongue lashing;
“Have /any/ idea vhut kind of jeopardy you’ve put zis team zhrough keepink zis from us?” His voice was a low hiss, pacing as he went, “Nein! Drei months pass und zis only comes to light when Schcout finds you passed out in za BLU base!”
Pyro said nothing. Medic continued, but his movements started becoming less erratic and his voice, softer.
“Ve are undza equipped und unprepared,” he paused to sighed and pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up at an odd angle, “I vill schpare you za details for now, but vith everythink happening now as ist is, ve are lookink at a long sechs months ahead.”
Medic sighed once more, repositioned his glasses and looked back at Pyro. “You are relived from duty, Pyro, und for za zake of your health, I suggest zat za schuit will not be vorn in your quarters or much and vear else.”
Pyro looked particular downtrodden concerning the last part. Medic was having none of it.
“You should have thought about your precious identity before…/zis/,” he gestured to a belly hidden under thick layers of the suit, “Cross your legs, not your fingers, ze alvays say.”
Pyro shifted on the medical table awkwardly. Medic then resorted to some minor compromises.
“Fine, /fine/, if it makes both our lives easier, you may vear za schuit from your quarters to ze infirmary, as you vill be kommink down here often.” There was an uncertain silence then, Medic sighed again, and with a roll of his eyes, added, “Und I vill personally see to it your appearance und privacy are not compromised.”
Pyro looked pleased, if nodding vigorously though all that material could be interpreted as such. Medic then sent Pyro off, but not before scheduling another appointment in the near future, once he could find whatever archaic ultrasound machine he knew he had rotting in the backroom.
Alone now, Medic bemoaned his predicament, wondering why he ever took on this assignment. He needed a distraction, and Heavy was undoubtedly still bickering with the rest of the REDs, hopefully about the Respawn this time. He would need to join that discussion soon as well; the thought aggravated him as much as it did chill him. Even as a man of medicine, one who either dealt death or witnessed it in his /illustrious/ career, is own morality never seemed as possible as it did now. It was why everyone was so bent out of shape, they were scared, he included. It was getting worse, no one wanted to say it, but it was. Pretty soon, injuries would become more severe and frequent, the memory loss between Respawns stronger. He didn’t need to be as smart as he was to recognize a slippery slope when he saw one. He could only wonder if the BLUs were having the same problem.
The cloud of cigarette smoke that had accumulated in the Intelligence Room by the time Sniper got down there was large enough to warrant the need for fog lights. A smoker himself, though never this excessive, Sniper managed to navigate through the oppressively thick haze with only the odd cough. Spy was sitting on the floor, back against the far wall, working diligently at both having a staring with the red and blue briefcases stacked up on the desk in front of him and as a living chimney. Sniper treaded carefully, though. Getting a good look at Spy, he could see the foul look etched deeply in his face and now wondered if all that smoke was from the cigarettes or Spy’s temper fuming off of him. Most anyone would have turned tail and ran when Spy looked up with an expression that was about as happy to see you as a swarm of Africanized bees.
Sniper raised his hand casually and said, “Howzat?” before plopping down next to Spy, lighting a cigarette of his own.
Spy was familiar enough with the other man’s “bush talk” to know he was being asked how he was, thinking this redundant, he replied; “What are you doing ‘ere?”
Sniper took a slow drag and just got down to brass tacks, “Resa’ the team figured this would be easier as a two man job on the off chance suh’in did happen, so I volunteered myself.”
The former was true; the latter was an outright fabrication on Sniper’s part. After some deliberation amongst the team once they left the infirmary, it was decided that it would indeed be smarter to have two men on guard duty, just to be safe. Who’d be joining Spy, however, was decided by the ancient and fair art of drawing straws, and Sniper just drew up short. Spy didn’t argue this; he either didn’t have it in him or was too preoccupied being mad at something else. He couldn’t decide.
The pair sat in silence for a good while until;
“S’why Audrey Hepburn?”
Spy stopped mid-lighting a new one, staring at Sniper like the other had lobsters crawling out of his ears. “…Excusez-moi?”
Sniper was looking at the pack of matches he was fumbling with, lighting a new smoke of his own, when he replied;
“Earlier, down in the infirmary, you mentioned suh’in ‘bout not caring if it was ol’Audge under that mask.”
Spy’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits, though it went unnoticed. “If you are coming ‘ere with more silly suspicious, zen you can just f-”
Sniper cut him off, “’m not, mate. ‘Ell, I don’t think it’s you, myself, not now, anyway.”
The fabric of Spy’s balaclava, just above his eye, bent upwards as the eyebrow underneath it rose in suspicion. “Is zat so?”
Nodding as he finally had a successfully strike with his matches, Sniper lit up, took a drag and looked back at Spy.
“Had some time t’think about it, figured you f’all people wouldn’t,” he paused to take another drag, “I know you an’ that fruit loop were at odds and that you knowin’ an’not tellin’ us was a bunch a’waffle.”
Spy didn’t say thank you, he merely made a throaty noise and sharply nodded his head, letting the conversation return to silence. It remained that way until his mood improved after he burned through another pack. His last pack. Usually, this would be the time where the shakes and irritability would start kicking in. But no, sitting in not /completely/ terrible company, quite company anyway, Spy found himself capable of conversation at last.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” He said, much to Sniper confusion. Spy, with a roll of his eyes, elaborated, “You asked me why ‘Epburn, zis is because /Breakfast at Tiffany’s/ is my favorite cinema, za name just…came to me.”
Sniper, eyes closed, thumb and forefinger on his chin, nodded sagely, almost like he agreed but didn’t want to say anything. The conversation went on from there; it was slow-paced with chunks of it going nowhere and drifting back into comfortable silence. They both had little in common and liked the quite moments best, but the exchange kept going, even when they thought the next pause would be the last. It all came to a head when, almost randomly, Sniper interjected one of the quieter periods with;
“Makes y’think, dunnit?”
“Mm?” Spy hummed, finding vowels difficult when a cigarette he now felt comfortable enough to bum off Sniper was hanging out of his mouth.
Sniper strummed his fingers on his knees, looking absentmindedly up at the ceiling fan, “All ‘is piss about Pyro not bein’a bloke, when it jus’ proves it.”
“Proves what?”
Sniper looked back at Spy, “’At we duh’know a damned thing about any of us.”
Spy leaned farther back against the wall, now looking at the ceiling; he smirked when he saw the many blackened holes that dotted its cheap white paint job from the shots he fired over the course of many briefings.
“Bezzer zat way,” he finally said.
Sniper laughed and handed Spy another cigarette, “Cheers t’that.”
The Scout at BLU base was having a very rough night. Failures were as common as victories, but that knowledge was ineffective as any means of comfort. In the seemingly endless space between a failure and the next mission, Scout always found himself in an anxious slump. He had to find ways to keep himself busy, his hands moving or fall victim to lethargic depression. Tonight’s means of distraction was rapid channel flipping. He was alone in the rec. room, leaving him free to fly back and forth through the all of six channels they got on their conservative, blocky little black and white Philips’ set.
It consumed Scout’s attention so immensely, that when he paused briefly at the Flintstones, he almost didn’t register the blue hand on his shoulder. Normally jumpy, he was so successfully distracted, that he only turned around slowly to see,
“Doc?”
The BLU Medic looked out of breathe and haggard, like he had run all the way here from the infirmary. “Schout…” he wheezed out, looming over the edge of the couch, clearly not here with good news, “Get ze others, vake zim up if ze are schlepping, ve have an emergency.”
It was then, using the light provided only by the dim glow of the television, that Scout noticed the dark stains splattered across the front of Medic’s lab coat.
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I admit about half way through, the beta'ing stops. This is totally the product of my own impatience and not that of my infinitely patient beta, Plain.
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