Miss Pauling watches me from the other side of the living room, sitting in the armchair with an expectant look. I stand in the doorway of our apartment, a bag of groceries in hand. Pulling down the hem of my uniform causes metal pins on the back of my nametag to scratch my chest. I chuckle lightly. "Honey, I'm home."
"Dead, honey, that's what you are," she corrects in a sarcastic tone.
"Dead?"
"Dead."
"Dead, dead?"
"As dead as it gets." She points to the couch. I ignore her and walk into the kitchen, beginning to put away my groceries. "And now you're deflecting."
"No, I just don't want the milk to get warm," I say, ripping the fridge open and tossing the carton inside. The paper bag tears at my speed. "Nobody likes sour milk. You were the one who asked for it before I left."
"Nobody likes having a dead teammate," she counters.
"I'm not their teammate."
"You became a part of the team the moment you accepted the offer, Miss Fredrickson." She motions to the couch again. I refuse a second time and turn around to start a pot of coffee. She sighs. "What, you're going to let a few bad interactions deter you from the job?"
I stand at the sink and fill the pot with water. "A team is about working together, and I can't work together with people who try to kill me."
She laughs and rests her head on her fist. "Oh, all of them were trying to kill you?"
"Yes," I say, pouring the water into the brewer.
"I beg to differ." She starts to tap her foot. "I'm trying to help you, Fredrickson."
I drum my fingers on the edge of the counter before moving a hand to move some strands of my hair out of my face and behind my ear. The air conditioning shuts off and settles the air. I always hated living here. From the noisy upstairs neighbors to the landlord that doesn't do anything and the horrible smell that pushes its way into the vent whenever it so pleases, it's a miracle I have yet to physically harm anyone in this building. Coffee spurts into the pot and splashes, a drop burning my skin. My caffeinated drink doesn't smell right. Cigarette smoke wafts in and gives me a headache when it usually wouldn't. Miss Pauling clears her throat, and I look at her. Her expression is gentle, but stern. I turn away from her again and watch the coffee brew. The laughter of young children can be heard beyond our front door, followed by the exhausted call of their father to keep the volume down. Sunlight shines into the metal kitchen sink and reflects the light into my eyes.
"So, I'm dead," I recap. "What does that mean now? I've been going to work for the past three days and it took forever to convince Vince and Parma to let me take my old job back, you know that. How am I going to break the news to them now? And it's not like the Administrator will let me take my moonlighting job back as a cubicle rat."
"Sit down, and I'll tell you," she beckons. I shake my head and take a mug out from the cabinet.
"The last time I sat down on the couch to chat with you, I was about to ignite like a fucking fireworks display. Call it a hunch, but the couch is a bad omen that should be avoided."
"I don't understand what else bad could happen to you, your neck got snapped!" She rebukes and stays planted in the armchair. "I assure you, a fictional minimum wage paycheck from a diner that sits on the side of the road in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico is the least of your worries. And you hated it in the basement, that's why you asked me about my position, anyway! Technically by your logic, though, Miss Fredrickson, that means you're still alive."
"No. It doesn't."
I take a sip of pure black coffee. There's no taste. I frown. She prattles on. "You were simply asleep the last time we met. I even said I was a manifestation of your logical thinking. If you're seeing me right now, that means you're only asleep."
"Uhm, no. Bullshit!" I argue. "You said I was dead when I walked in, after three days of working at my old job. I'm done with TF Industries, Pauling. I'm not going anywhere near there again."
"You're dead if you don't talk to me, there's really no other choice," she casually responds. Unbelievable. This is how logical my thinking is? This is the best I could do?
I shrug. "Okay, let's speak hypothetically. If you are my logical thinking, and if you are only to exist because my brain is still functioning, and- for argumentative purposes- there is another person I would be talking to right now in death, how would that even be possible? As you said, my neck got snapped. Neck snapping ends in death. Let me work my death diner job in peace."
Miss Pauling groans and rolls her eyes. "For the love of God, sit down, Miss Fredrickson. I'm going to tell you a little secret, okay?" There's nothing else to do around here. I sigh and rest on the arm of the couch, feeling slightly cocky and as though I'm gaming the system. Miss Pauling's face is unamused, but she continues. "Two of your teammates have a very unusual set of skills that are particularly helpful in this very specific situation. When you wake up--"
"I'm dead."
"Let me finish!" she huffs. "When you come to, please don't try to fight or run away or do any of the drastic things you love doing. What you're about to go through is going to be taxing, so you'll need to save that unbridled recklessness for the right moment. Trust me."
I squint at her and drink more of my tasteless coffee. "You're only supposed to know things I know."
"Just sit on a cushion. Any of them, please. You're making me nervous."
"Ugh," I obnoxiously exult. "Fine."
I lift myself and stare down at the khaki suede. The fabric darkens and sinks in the middle; my typical spot. Turning around one-hundred eighty degrees, I plop down on the couch and take the biggest breath I ever have in my life, sitting up and looking around in a panic.
"Well, whaddya know?" The voice from before my worldly vacation is finding itself back in my ears. I breathe heavily. I'm freezing but also burning at the same time. A hand drops on my shoulder, causing me to jump and look to my side.
"S-Sol-Soldier?" I stutter and clutch my shirt. "My he- hea- he- heart is beating really fa-f- fast. Why is m-m-m-my heart beating fast?"
"That would be your body making up for lost time," Medic explains, kneeling on his knee next to me, Medi Gun in hand. I move my mouth to say a thousand words at once but don't make a sound. "You'll feel like that for the next hour or so. Mach es dir gemütlich."
I hum as a response that has no agreement connotation behind it. I keep humming uncontrollably and my head throbs in pain. My legs are restless and the feeling in my arms has checked out for the night. This is awful. Absolutely no one will want to get resuscitated after I tell them about the gratuitous torture my physical being is succumbing to. I feel so fragile, like so much as making eye-contact will cause me to unravel. I hoot. Medic lifts a curious eyebrow as he watches my reaction. "But I- But I kinda- Didn't I die or- die or something? I feel like I d-died, didn't I do- do- do- didn't I do that? Dying?"
"Hmm, yes," Medic taps his chin. His vest is still stained with blood, but there's no scarring on his head. "Soldier here un-snapped your neck, and I simply gave your body a jumpstart. You've only been dead for seventy-two hours, you're handling this a lot worse than I thought you would. Though, the others are still breathing when I heal them plus the fact they have no souls..."
"Haa-ahhhh-- Haaaaaaaaaaahhhh--???" I squawk in discomfort. Medic and Soldier both flinch at my sudden jolt of activity. There is a lot of information being thrown my way, and I simply do not have the mental capacity to comprehend it on top of having to put up with my body not receiving any of the messages I'm sending; one of those messages just so happens to be a cease and desist. I don't think I'm supposed to taste sound nor feel my neurons firing electricity to my nerves, this is a nightmare. My arms seize up for a slight moment before going completely numb and flopping to my sides. Soldier sits with me on the floor and holds me bridal-style in his lap to prevent me from accidentally hurting myself. "Oh, you look go- good. Where- where did yo- your- your scars go?" Soldier's eyes watch me carefully from under his helmet.
"A healing is a healing, Miss Fredrickson. Our bodies are back to one-hundred percent thanks to Medic. I do not trust this foreign technology, however, so we will call it American for my own comfort." My leg twitches which- in turn- forces my hip to pop. The two wince.
"That's enough messing around. You healed them. Take him back," the extra voice orders some other people around, and Medic protests in German as he gets pulled away from me. I reach out for him but am held back by Soldier. "Tie them up again."
I'm yanked from Soldier's grasp and pinned to the ground as my arms get pulled behind my back. There was no pain to be found in my shoulder, remembering the power behind the shotgun blast. What does he put in that Medi Gun?
Soldier tries struggling against the BLU demoman that's restraining him, the guy beckoning over another mercenary to help him. They coordinate in confining us and disallowing access to our hands and our feet. We're spared the gags and get propped up against boxes that have "RED" stamped on the side. Are we on the resupply train? I focus for a second and try to tune out my erratic and possibly life-endangering heartbeat. I feel movement, my body beginning to rock slightly with the train.
Location changes usually do not amount to anything good.
I lean my head onto his shoulder. He shifts his position to slouch and help me get comfortable. "I will not lie, Miss Fredrickson, the tides of war are not in our favor."
"I know," I mumble, still having difficulty breathing normally. "At least Medic is okay. Hav- have you seen anyone else?"
"Shut it up over there!" One of the mercenaries yells into the train car. "We'll gag you if you two act up."
"No," Soldier grumbles.
I let out a ragged sigh. "We'll have to conserve energy. Our only choices are to sit around or take a nap."
"You go ahead and rest, sister. I got your six. Er, uh, your nine."
Cedar wafts to my nose from the crates. We jostle lightly with the movement of the train. The BLU demoman walks by to check on us. He looks nothing like Demo, younger and more beefed up in the arms. I eye him as he walks by, touting a grenade launcher as his firearm of choice.
I wriggle my hands behind my back, trying to get a feel for what material is binding me. Stretching my back slightly, zip ties are identified to be the culprit. Assuming we were searched, it would be preposterous to assume that I'd still have my-- You're joking. I can see the outline of my pocket knife on my thigh. I don't even remember putting it there. I've been carrying a gun this entire time that I've been neglecting the pocket knife I brought along with me. It's just conveniently found in my pocket when I'm in need of it most? I feel as though this is a setup.
The smart choice, obviously, would be to comply. The Miss Pauling in my head said so. I have no chance of survival on this train and I'd be a liability for Soldier who could definitely hold his own. There's no knowing how many enemy mercenaries are boarded with us, and there's just no way we'll be stupidly lucky enough to happen upon the rest of the team and an arsenal of weapons to be at our disposal. We got blindsided, and it will for sure happen again. And don't even get me started on spies that live in the shadows. Uncertainty straightens up my spine as I ponder escape routes. My heart seems to have calmed down as my spasms have stopped. My headache is still present, but bearable. Medic mentioned something about the team not having souls earlier. Does he seriously expect me to believe him? Oh, who am I kidding? Just found out I was dead for three days while I'm on a train being abducted, anything is on the table. Someone could tell me that a wizard killed Tom Jones, and I don't think I'd have too much of an issue with taking their word as truth.
Soldier's head is on a swivel as he surveys what's within our view. I take a peek around with him. A makeshift table made from a crate rests a few paces away from where we sit, a sniper sleeping with his head laid on his arms. His hair is ash white and his arms show marks of old age and experience. Some bottles of beer and an ashtray are set in front of him. A thin line of smoke beams from the cinders. I've noticed that Soldier smells similar, but different, to that of a cigarette. He seems like a cigar smoker to me, anyway, so that must be the case. The door to the train car flips open, giving us a rush of air. The demoman leaves. The sniper jolts awake, giving me a good view of his face. Sunspots litter his cheeks and crow's feet leave a mark on his eyes. He has a strong appearance, though. His bones still have a good amount of meat left on them.
"Farland," the voice that ordered Medic away speaks with an American accent and addresses the sniper, "we're approaching the base. Move these two up to car five C."
"Are you going to escort them with me?" Farland asks, a rasp in his voice as he reaches for his rifle.
His footsteps come closer to us, I pull my attention away from Farland. The patch on their sleeve tells me they're a pyro. Standing before me is a man who's stocky and shaped like a barrel, but not flabby. He's dressed in a suit similar to the one Pyro wears but adorned in blue. A gas canister sits on his back and a minuscule flame thrower occupies his hand. "Yeah, don't worry. Only cut the tie around their feet, leave their hands alone."
Farland approaches us and kneels down, sawing the plastic off with a small knife of his own. We're stood up and ushered from one car to another, having to rely on the BLUs to keep us from falling on the in-between from car to car.
"Stop." Both Soldier and I pause in a passenger car with booths. "Sit down on opposite sides of each other. We're going to be pulling in."
We make haste with sliding into seats, looking at the other from across the table. The wheels screech against the track as everything shifts, my back hitting the leather seat and squishing my hands. This doesn't last long. A full halt is reached in minutes, and we're pulled from the booth in a matter of moments. Farland nudges us along with the barrel of his gun to follow the pyro. A door opens, and Soldier and I step off of the car into the ravenous heat of the New Mexico Badlands. I squint and keep my eyes facing downward, following Soldier's feet, to protect from the sun.
Cool air hits as we enter a building and watch their mercenaries trade out guns and weapons in what looks to be their armory. I don't dare to so much as move to raise suspicion. The pyro steps up to examine us, giving me discomfort and causing me to back up. He stares bug-eyed with a malicious smile. "Oh, where are my manners? Would you prefer to be untied?"
"Yes," Soldier answers before me. Not the answer I would've given, but a good one nonetheless.
"Shut the fuck up, I'm talking to the one that doesn't irritate me." He snarls before turning to me.
"Only if you allow him to be released, too," I shakily reply, following after Soldier.
"Hmm. Does he behave around you?"
I nod. He uses his hand to herd us out of the armory and into the main corridors of their base. Farland and the demoman from earlier pursue us passively. I start to shiver in fear of what's to become of us. RED and BLU yield DISASTER, so I'm not psyched by any sense of the word to find out where our destination is. Passing what looks to be a bustling common room, we come to an open doorway to outside and are stopped and turned around. The cords fall off as they're cut in the same manner as the ones from our ankles. I rub my wrists and thumb the indentations made. "Is that better?"
"Yes, it is... Thank you," I utter, very weak in presentation.
"Nothing to be afraid of, ma'am," he says. "As a matter of fact, my name is Adam. Can I ask what yours is?"
"Fredrickson," I whisper. He holds his hand to his ear in a mocking way. My voice quivers. "M-Miss Fredrickson."
"I see. What about him?"
"Soldier," Soldier responds. The mercenaries within earshot laugh, excluding Adam.
"Not your class, jackass. Your name."
"I'm referred to as by Soldier," he insists. I elbow him and give an expression of I-really-don't-think-it's-a-good-idea-to-push-their-big-BLU-buttons. "My real name is Jane Doe."
"We'll just call you John," Adam shrugs. "Let's get to it."
"What are we getting to?" I speak up. Adam gives me a side-eye. "If... I may ask?"
"You'll have to meet the boss, and he'll decide that. We've been ordered to escort you there upon arrival, so go ahead and get to walking." Adam steps out of the way and lets us pass first. The courtyard is boxed off and has stairs that lead up an elevation and then flip to lead back into the building. I look up at the structure, still feeling the indent on my skin. "Go ahead."
I glance at Soldier and nod, taking the first few steps back out into dry; burning air. We step slowly and carefully, not wanting to make any sudden movements that'll give their sniper a reason to shoot. I look behind myself to Adam. "Where's the rest of them?"
"Them?" He questions.
"The RED mercenaries. Where are they?"
"The rest of Team Fortress? The boss'll tell you," he reroutes me.
I grumble. "Are they at least alive?"
"The boss'll tell you," he repeats, slightly more aggressively. I tug on a small bit of fabric from Soldier's shirt before letting go. "You must care about your teammates."
I invoke the fifth and don't even look at him. Anything I do or say has the potential to be used against me later. It'd be just as telling to not say anything. "I'm simply their contractor. My employer wouldn't be too happy about losing money from losing men."
Soldier veers a step or two away from me, his gestures turning slightly distant in response to the answer I gave. I want to tell him that that's not the case. Despite only knowing them for a short amount of time, I do care. I can't help but care. No matter how mad I get at myself for doing so, I can't stop the worry from creeping in. Engie's and Scout's wellbeing is easy for me to admit to since they've treated me like a normal person, but some part of me wants to reject the uneasiness of what became of Sniper. We just left him to lay in a pile of glass with a needle in his neck, defenseless and easy pickings. And Pyro, too, despite his whole scare about prepping me for incineration. Soldier said he was fighting along-side Heavy and Demoman, so that has to mean something, right? At the current moment given the circumstances, I can forget about them trying to kill me. Both of them are my responsibility at the end of the day. I just want to know if they're alright. Once I'm assured of their safety, then I'll allow myself to hold a grudge.
"Adam, hold on," Farland speaks up, a radio crackling. He tunes it and steps away to hear. He comes back. "Change of plans. Boss said to get them to their rooms. He's planning on speaking with these two when he gets the time."
"Let's get them boarded," he announces to the other mercenaries rather than us. We're prompted to move faster. "I'm sure you'll find it comfortable here."