Archive of Our Own

The gun sat gently in the crook of his shoulder, and he patiently waited at the scope. Comrades ran across the battlefield, and he looked out for their opposing sniper. Nothing but a battleground of lunatics not ducking their heads under enemy fire. Only soldiers and scouts finding their way to one another to murder in cold blood their counterparts. He almost did not care about the blood that was being spilled by his team. He almost quietly snuck off to another spot, another place, to scope out the enemy and find their unprotected heads. Heads like targets. Slaughter. One jumped towards him having spotted him. He was in the sky, so very high as he tried to evade his aim. Tried to outrun him. Running only got the enemy so far.

He smirked, and the man started his decent from the leap. As if in slow motion.

The bullet passed through his skull, a satisfying click of the gun. He started to pull back the lever again, but as he pulled the scope away from his face, his eyes befell his fate. A rocket, so inconspicuous in its shape, flew towards him. He lowered his gun. There was no time to run, no minute to pass to contemplate a strategic escape. His eyes widened, he clutched the rifle tightly, and like a child quivering in fear from an angry parent, he raised it between himself and the oncoming projectile knowing it would do nothing but still acting anyways. There was no sound, after that. No screams to be heard. A fiery explosion, shrapnel piercing through his body. Wood splinters sprawling through the air as the perch he’d made his nest on fell to the ground.

He didn’t feel the impact, or the fire that grabbed all up his leg, or the bits of metal from the railing and window he’d hidden in pierce his stomach and hip. He didn’t see what covered his eyes. Only a faint sound was perceived, and nothing more. He laid on the ground, covered in dirt, and burning. From that height, he may as well have been dead, and yet, he could still hear, for just a brief moment of time, someone shout.

An enemy, a jeer.

It was brutal. Injuries were made. They had hardly won, and it showed. At one point there had even been a small retreat, though it was thwarted by the good efforts of their spy killing the opposing doctor. Soon enough, replacements would be made, clone-like replicas, somehow found. A new dawn, a new team. But that wouldn’t be until the next battle. Their own team was barely there. Certainly, they’d be needing some new people, too. Bodies, out of commission. Deaths? Heavy was carrying their half dead engineer back to the base, rapid blood loss soaking through the clothing of his old friend. The medic was patching him up with his technologies along the way, but there were other casualties too. The scout was limping, a formerly broken leg only barely healed. Complaining about the pain was all he knew to do, it seemed.

The pyro was trotting behind the large man, ever so worried about the engineer. The medic was trying to tell him off, and the demoman was coming up and putting a hand on his shoulder to comfort the fire enthusiast.

“He’s goin’ to be okay, lad, hafta let the doctor work his magic,” he told him. Quietly, affectionately. The three were still rushing, and the pyro started to lag behind with the others as they went along.

The trio of the wounded, the vehicle, and the healer went far up front. The others stayed behind, looking to each other for reassurance, and carrying their victory. The demo only consoled the pyro, and the spy gave apologetic looks but hardly anything else was said. Even Soldier was quiet.

“At least we got the intel...” Scout tried to comfort.

“Yes. Poor compensation for what we have to deal with,” replied the spy.

“Man, you’re always so negative, just tryin’ to lighten the mood a little.”

“If you wanted to exchange jokes why don’t you go find someone who’s just as immature as you, like the bushman!” he shouted back.

There was a moment of silence. They kept walking. The last the spy had even heard the sound of a rifle go off was in the early morning when the battle began. It was closing in on the evening now. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, as they continued on. Though they all bit their tongues, they all began to think the same thing, besides the pyro. What had happened to the guy? The spy assumed espionage, a swift slicing of the throat from behind. Scout assumed he was still aiming down the enemy team, uncertain of where they may be hiding their hats. Soldier, a true American, assumed that the foreigner must have deserted his post. But the demoman thought better in his slightly sobered state, and feared he’d been blown up by a few grenades launched tactfully at the nest. They all stopped, realizing that if they were well enough, no man should have been left behind. They all knew what would come next, too. A speech from spy, always so bossy and quick, and then a split.

“We need to find him,” the saboteur said quickly.

“Sniper can’t be too far from where we just were, what if the enemy team sees us?” Scout asked.

“They won’t, they’re high tailing it,” Soldier interjected confidently.

“We gotta split up and find him, like, right now,” Scout sounded worried. The sniper and him had a pretty close relationship. Friendly to the point where they’d hang out, outside of work together. He didn’t want to lose his buddy. “Like, yesterday!”

“Calm yourself, I’m sure we will manage to locate him. I will go north and cover those buildings, and the ones closest to the perimeter. Scout, I’m sure you’ll want to go looking in the underground. Soldier, you should take to the skies, and well... the demoman and pyro will obviously be returning to the base.”

“No,” the demoman said. He needed to keep Pyro away from harassing the medic. And any additional pair of eyes would be a good gift. Obviously to compensate for his lack of. “I’ll help yeh, so will the firestarta’.”

“Fine, then,” Spy said, annoyed. “Let us be on our way.”

They split up, leaving the sulky pyro and demo lagging behind.

“C’mon mate, we have ta find Sniper,” he didn’t move. “You know what, lad, how about you just... take a look around the perimeter. I know there was a fire in one of the buildings. Maybe he’s there. And if not, then you can just sit there and enjoy the show, eh? Take yer mind off things.”

With that, Demoman left, only briefly making sure the pyro followed to ensure that there were no breaks towards the base. He did.

Gladly, they all went to the task at hand.

The pyro was not too happy about the circumstances being presented. While the fire was alluring, the fact that his friend was hidden in the infirmary being poked at, and stitched up was not a good thought. There were very few things that could break the fantasy that he lived in. Drowning, and his only true friend getting hurt. Who would allow him to indulge in the fantasy once he was gone? Who would be kind to him once he died? Who would he be without someone that didn’t look at him like what he was, a freak? He sulked along, and looked for a second at the smouldering building. Though it still burnt, the wreckage was mostly what was left. Black and charred. He kicked at some wood that broke apart so easily with the force it may as well have never been standing to begin with the images of death and wreckage were still there, but sparks of comfort were returning. Images of happier things coming into perspective. Colours the likes of which could hardly be dreamed of.

He walked over, and well past through the pile. He had a feeling everything was going to be okay. But his gaze caught a dark shadow, that ruined his structure, his escape. He walked over to it, despite not wanting to follow the string that guided him back to reality. However desperately the flames called him to dance in their wavering ways, he couldn’t turn his eyes back to that lovely array. He looked over, and stood for a second, watching. It looked so real in comparison to everything else. So out of place. Standing over it, head lowered, he slowly crouched down beside him and with his gloved hand, shook at the shoulder. He told him to wake up, and move, to come join him in dance, but the figure didn’t stir. He shouted at it, confused at the lack of obedience. Why did he want to stay asleep? Why were all of his friends so tired? He shook again, a little more desperately.

The limpness and the way he was curled in on himself. It was disgusting, from the perspective of an outsider. But in his mind, it resembled sleep far more than anything else. He didn’t bleed inside of his mind, but there were flowers covering his whole side. In fact, an entire crown of them covered his eyes. He almost brushed them away, but was more focused on getting him to wake up. What stood out in the illusion was only his clothes, with how oddly tattered they were. He looked at them, trying to get him to sit up a little, calling for him to wake up, and not understanding why he couldn’t.

The scout ran up, a bat above his head, and swung. It wasn’t a strong swing, but it was enough to knock the pyro away from his friend. The man he considered a teammate fell to the other side, and scrambled away for a second, confused as his former ally stood up and started screaming at him.

“THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? GO GET MEDIC! GET OUT OF HERE! GO GET MEDIC!!!” he yelled, going over to Sniper and trying to make sure he was okay. He glared at the pyro when he didn’t do anything. “DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME, FREAKIN’ GO ALREADY!”

At that, he did run, but not towards Medic. He needed to be close to Engie, someone who could understand. Someone who could explain why his friend was so mad at him, just because he wanted the others to enjoy what he saw. He ran through the rubble as fast as he could.

“Aww, fuck,” he came close to him and kneeled. “Shit, man, are you all right? That freakin’ mute, aww, God,” he went to go touch him but stopped himself, too nervous to lay his hands on something that looked so fragile. He could see, though, there was some semblance of life. A grimace at the pain, and a shudder to try and cradle himself more. Nothing that seemed too conscious, however.

The scout looked up and around, then back down, going to get up, then getting back down again. The medic would surely be on his way as soon as the pyro got back to the base, and ran back. If he had gotten the engineer stable, at least. Quickly, he took off his jacket, something he had spent his first paycheck on, and tried to gently get it under his friend’s head. He watched as he winced at the movement and tried to turn away from him.

“I don’t got anything for ya to make ya feel better,” he told him, as if it were any consolation. “Shit, how long have you been here like this? How are ya not dead yet?”

“Scout,” a familiar voice called. “I heard yelling, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, the pyro found Sniper and was just shaking him like a lunatic. I got real mad is all.”

The man joined him at his side. The cigarette smoke that usually annoyed him felt like more of a comfort now. Like the calm that came from breathing it in manifested itself in the emotion of thankfulness for someone competent taking charge of a situation he had no idea how to command. The other crouched beside him, and put a hand on his back.

“Why didn’t you go for the doctor? I’ll go, you stay here.”

“I told the pyro to do it,” he said, panicked at the accusation. He sounded panicked the entire time, and a forced confidence made by the spy made him slightly more on edge. “But I guess that was stupid, I just, I didn’t want to leave him alone!”

“They might not understand him, you should have known that! I’ll go, I’ll go,” he repeated. He was rummaging around in his pockets, trying to look for something, anything, that could have been used as a relief for the pain. Though the sniper didn’t seem too conscious, he was on the verge of calling out something, and had muttered to himself whenever the scout had gone to touch him. “Did he talk to you at all?”

“No, he only tried to getta way from me, not even really.”

“Sniper?” the spy asked, “can you hear me? You’re going to be fine, I’m going to call for the doctor, just a few more minutes of this.”

“I don’t think he can hear us, Spy.”

“Okay... okay, I’m going to go,” he got up, quickly, having only found chloroform and not thinking it wise to use such things for any form of sedation. At least not to trust the scout with those matters. “Try to get him to be entirely still. If he shows any signs of waking, try to not make him panic. If his heart beats faster he’ll bleed out more, and...” he looked, the puddle of blood that disappeared into the dirt, staining the absorbent ground. It wasn’t small. And the parts around his face, “don’t you dare mention anything about why-“

“Yeah! Yeah! I freakin’ get it, go!” Scout yelled back at him. When he left, he kind of wished he’d gone instead, though knowing he was slower now made him logically feel better about himself staying. Being next to him was driving him to the edge. With no words, and only quiet mutters that sounded like pain, there wasn’t anything good about the situation. “You’re going to have some great battle scars after this one, pal, I gotta say,” he told him, nervously.

The spy ran as fast as he could to the base, jumping agilely over broken wood and dodging through corridors to where he needed to be. When he got there, the pyro seemed to be having an argument with the bodyguard at the door. Heavy was stopping him from getting in, and the fire starter was pointing to the medic, and out to the entrance. He could tell it had been going on a while as the battle to get in was sorely lost and there wasn’t as much protest as there would have been normally. He walked up quickly, and to the side.

“Heavy, we need the doctor,” he told him, out of breath.

“Doctor cannot come out now!” he sounded frustrated, and annoyed. “Engineer is fine, Pyro, stop pushing! Doctor take care of him!” He went back to the battle at hand, holding the arms of his friend as if he were nothing but a rag doll and stopping him easily from getting in.

“I don’t think you understand, Heavy,” the spy said, catching his breath. “I don’t know what happened, but Sniper is really hurt. I don’t know how he’s even managed to live this long if I’m being honest. If the engineer is at all stable, then he needs to be a priority.”

There was a second, and Heavy translated and thought about it. He sighed, and quickly pushed the pyro away.

“Pyro, enough! I go and get Sniper, we bring back here to doctor, da?”

“Okay! Yes! I’ll show the way,” Spy said as he started to leave.

Heavy came in tow, slowly, and with a hand on the pyro as to drag him along as well. Though he still fought, reluctantly he followed, and didn’t fight too much after leaving the hall. He longingly looked to the infirmary, but didn’t keep his stare as they started to move quicker away from the base and towards the ashy remnants that would soon be a grave if they didn’t hurry.

Scout had been trying to get the Sniper to stay on his back. He figured it would have been harder to lose blood if he wasn’t laying so that it would pour out. The demoman had come to keep them company, however. He was trying to get him to drink. Not only would it help with the pain, he knew that if he were intoxicated, he might not panic as much when he fully gained consciousness. He’d been doing better, too. Had said a few slightly coherent things. Maybe it was the fact that he just hurt so much that it snapped him out of his ill state, but he’d told Scout to stop in a pretty clear voice, and had questioned the demoman ‘what?’ as he’d tried to tell him to drink.

“There he is!” the spy said.

They ran, and rejoined the group. Heavy looked for a second, confused, and now realizing he shouldn’t have been so quick to be dismissive. He still had the engineer’s blood all over him, and he was going to have more of his friend’s blood on him before he could change and wash it off. He watched, and went down to his side. Everyone knew that since they spent so much time together, that being with Heavy was the second best thing when you were sick or hurt (if not the first considering bedside manner) because he knew a lot about how to help people get to where they needed to be, and if the doctor wasn’t around, he knew enough about patching up a wound to deal with it to make one at ease. The only real rival that could compare to his expertise was the engineer. He had a lot of contraptions and such to make any man feel better.

“Ahh, this is not good,” Heavy stated the obvious.

“Hurry up, Heavy!” Scout demanded, wanting his friend to get to the medic as fast as possible.

“Scout,” Spy scolded, in a warning voice. “Don’t rush him.”

The heavy was putting an arm underneath his friend’s chest, and looping his other under his knees.

Everyone on the team had to pick up someone at least once. Heavy could carry everyone the second best, having strength and height to his advantage. The spy usually slung people over his shoulder and was not a good carrier at all. Medic could do it the actual best, though. He could carry everyone, including those taller and larger, and had on many occasions done so. But Heavy was great at it. Despite his size, he was gentle, and he was slow, which made for little jostling. Sniper winced and cried out in pain. Heavy didn’t flinch, but Scout did, and stepped back as the pair stood, and they started to walk as fast as they could back to the base. Scout felt bad for Pyro in that sense, because as much as he knew he needed to give them as much space as possible, all he wanted to do was to stay by Sniper’s side. Be on guard while his friend recovered. There was comradery in that denial of closeness, though he was still seething at Pyro.

As they left, Scout stopped. He didn’t move as he watched them return. He couldn’t get his body to move even to trail behind them. He just stared, like some freak who couldn’t be bothered to call to his friends when they were in need, despite wanting to. Even the spy could follow, and he barely liked Sniper. The pyro was gone a while ago, having felt it was the right time to barge into the infirmary given no security.

“I’m goin’ ta get Soldier, lad. Will you be all right?” Demo asked him. Scout looked over, snapping out of his trance and nodding.

They rushed inside, and Spy opened the door for the heavy.

“I said no, Pyro! He needs to rest more! Go back outside and wait.”

“Come on, doc. It’s fine. I’m feelin’ better.”

“Ja? Well, you won’t be ‘feelin’ better’ if you keep moving around. I need to make sure your uber implant is still functioning,” he informed him. After a few successful blood transfusion and a couple hits from the medigun, there wasn’t much to say in terms of complaints from the engineer. He was drowsy, and did want to sleep, but he could put that off to sit with his friend for a little while and relax. He knew the second he was cleared for getting out of the infirmary he’d be needing to spend a couple days laying around in bed, so he didn’t mind the attention while it lasted. He looked up as the other three entered.

“Aw, Hell,” he said under his breath. He hoped that he hadn’t looked as bad as Sniper did when he’d been dragged into there. He didn’t stare too long, knowing it was rude. He looked back at Pyro instead, giving as much privacy as possible considering the small quarters in which they healed in. It also got Medic off his back, which he was grateful for.

“What happened?” the German asked, coming up and getting another bed ready for his next patient.

“We don’t know,” Spy replied. “We found him, laying on the ground. He could have been there for hours.”

“Sniper talked for little bit,” Heavy suggested, as a way to say that he should have been sedated.

The doctor turned around and went to the cabinet, rummaging around for a second as Heavy laid him out on the bed. He turned back to his patient, putting all the things he’d just found on the bedside table and grabbing a needle of some kind. Before he went to stab him, however, he got the medigun and pulled it closer to point at him. He didn’t turn it on. Spy wondered why. The doctor went back to what he’d been planning before, and pulled one of his arms close, and squeezed at his bicep a little to see the vein better. He stuck it in, and that was when the other two decided that maybe it was time to leave. Spy cautiously looked to Heavy, and they exchanged a glance before he departed. Heavy left, after trying to coax Pyro away from the engineer to no avail.

“Sniper? Can you hear me?” was the last thing Spy got to hear as he left the infirmary.

The medic couldn’t turn on the medigun. If he did, the metal and wood would heal into his body, and that would have been very, very bad. Especially considering that a lot of it was in his face. He had his work cut out for him. With the way it had slammed into him, he didn’t know if there was much hope in saving his most vital of sense. But he couldn’t think like that if he wanted to succeed. He felt horrible. He was tired, and still had an arrow jutting out of his arm from the enemy sniper. There was no time to think. Taking a scalpel and some alcohol, slowly going over to him, he looked at the mess. He wondered if it had breached the soft tissue of his eyes and had pierced into his brain. He supposed he’d be dead already if that were the case. He started to work, wiping away the dirt and soot with alcohol, and getting some tweezers ready to pull out the shrapnel.

The dawn of the next day arose without much to say. The night prior, they’d all gone to bed feeling the failure that hid just beneath the surface of their success. The scout had slept outside of the infirmary on two chairs, until the engineer had been released at around midnight, being walked to his room by the pyro. They’d stopped and had woken him, told him the hallways were no place for sleep, and he’d joined them on their trek to the quarters, being offered assurances by Engineer that Sniper had been doing good, and though he’d been asleep, the doctor had left him to recover a bit as he got discharged and he worked on himself. Though the full extent of the work wasn’t done, there was no threat to his life anymore, and no foreign objects making a place for themselves in his skin. This did not assure the scout, but it was enough to ease his worries and let him go to sleep in his own bed.

When the waking hours came, though, everyone was on edge to say the least. Heavy, having not seen the doctor at all last night, was worried about sleep deprivation, and was seemingly hoping to get him to go rest and leave the care for Sniper to someone else for a bit. Spy was getting some coffee, and Pyro was burning breakfast. Soldier was the only one who really seemed to be relishing the new dawn, and was completing his daily routine workout/boot camp training in the yard. Everyone else was just coping with their misfortunes in their own way. Engineer was still sleeping, and so were Scout and Demo. Therefor, they were spared from the bitter mood. The mood was a lot worse in the infirmary, however.

He’d woken up at seven thirty-six in the morning. The doctor knew this because he’d been checking his watch to see just how long he’d spent awake. It had started with the small mumbles of tiredness, and continued. That was how he knew he wasn’t just sleeping anymore. When Sniper reached to touch his face, the back of his hand to his forehead as many do when they wake, the doctor stopped him. He kept his hand in his own, uncertain what he was going to say to him as he pulled up a seat and sat down next to the bed.

“You’re in the base, herr Sniper. You had quite the thrashing.”

“...Doc?” He mumbled, his voice raw. He looked over to the sound.

“Ja, it’s me,” he paused, and anxiously tried to think of what he’d say. He was so tired. Maybe he should have let someone else with better bedside manner deal with this. Blasted hindsight vision, he should have made the engineer stay and deal with it. Maybe he could get away with pretending not to know the correct English word for it. “Do you feel all right?”

“I... I feel okay, doc. Thanks,” he tried to sit up, but the medic thought against it, and put a hand on his shoulder. Desperately, Sniper tried to rub his eyes. “No...” he said under his breath.

The doctor stood up, and anxiously went about looking around in his cabinets for something to sedate him with. If things were to turn dire.

“I do believe you should rest more. It wasn’t long ago that you became stable enough to stop the drip, and I don’t think that moving around will help you feel any better, friend.”

“No, no, doctor,” he sounded pathetic. Medic put his hands on his shoulders, trying to show him that he was still alive. That even though he had drastically different perceptions, he was still there, breathing.

“Take some deep breaths,” he told him, watching as panic etched itself along his scarred features. When a slight dip in calmness overtook him, Medic had decided not to sugar coat it. “I did everything that I could, but... the metal that blew up in your face went rather deep. Eyes are just... so sensitive.”

“You’ve made people indestructible! You’ve brought people back from comas! I-...” he almost choked, but swallowed hard instead. “I don’t believe you, you have to do something.” He reached over to grab him by the collar, but the misjudgement of where he stood just didn’t translate. Instead, in a display of true desperation, he only grabbed at his coat. The medic caught his arm to steady him.

“Sniper, I might be able to help you, but not when you’re panicked. Please, try to calm down.”

“How am I supposed to be calm, you bloody lunatic?”

“Sniper, I am trying to be kind to you, but you are trying my patience,” the medic was irritable. Normally he would have joked at his anger, knowing it would put him at ease to feel as though he’d figure it out, as if it were no worry to him. Or at least it would have made him angry at something else besides a currently unchangeable circumstance. But he was tired, and on the verge of snapping. Hallucinations and voices from distant corners of the room plagued him, told him to just shoot his friend instead of dealing with it, much to no reply. “Now, I will give you two options. One, you calm down, and try to relax or I can fix you something, or two, I drug you and you don’t have a say in the matter? Hmm? Which sounds better, because I think I know the one I’d prefer right now.”

The sniper pulled away, wringing his hands through his hair, hyperventilating a bit. He tried to focus on breathing, tried not to move, to still himself as he had before taking a shot. But he couldn’t. The medic sounded drained of all optimism and “fun” little intimidating quotes he’d usually sputter whenever they were in his operating room. Only a cold, and very calculated form of speech. It was unlike him, and for an instance, he wondered if he was in the infirmary of the other team and was being tortured. Was the doctor tired because he’d already tried everything? Bile rose in his throat and dryly, he swallowed. The medic watched, not able to feel genuine empathy for him, but understanding that he was in pain. It wasn’t a hopeless venture, but one he knew would be long, and not quick in its results. He sat down again, sighing slightly, only to stand again and walk to his supply cabinets.

“...We’re on hiatus from the war... if your safety concerns you, that is.”

Sniper didn’t reply, trying to rub his eyes in circles, hunching over. Pain shot through his side. He didn’t cry out but tried to look, not knowing how else to assess what felt wrong. He breathed sharply, and the doctor turned around and walked over.

“Let me see,” he told him, trying to coax him to lean back.

He complied, and the doctor moved the shirt up and looked at where he’d pried the shrapnel from. The muscle was tense as he touched at the closed wound, in the mechanical way all doctors do with no feeling, and no consideration besides the question of “what’s wrong here?”. He couldn’t see any sign of anything wrong from the outside, and trusted his judgement enough to know that he hadn’t created a disaster inside of him, with the placement of organs when he’d patched it up, and had healed it well. What was happening was just the nerves and the muscle going back to place, and returning to their normal states after the trauma, having bypassed all the stages of healing this was purely just his body needing time. He looked up at him, noticing how uneven and shallow his breaths were. He wasn’t a therapist, and he could hardly even see other people having emotions at most times, but he knew panic when it set in. However sadistically he’d taken in that information, he didn’t want him to feel so awful now. He went up next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Sniper had always been the quietest of his friends. The one that wouldn’t complain about anything, that hardly ever talked. Like Heavy, he’d never really told him how crazy he thought he was, or really been rude to him for anything he’d said. Just incredibly quiet. He respected that, and for that considered him to be one of the people he got along better with, beaten by Heavy, and rivalled by the engineer. He didn’t like seeing him suffer, despite wishing to tell him to suck it up as he had with even his closest friend.

“Relax,” he said, unfocused eyes shifting. “Sniper, I am promising you that we will find something of a work around, if not a cure. I just need time. Believe me.”

There was a moment of hesitation, but it seemed to calm him down enough for him to stop hyperventilating, and relax just ever so slightly. He looked forwards again, but couldn’t reply. Medic hadn’t expected him to, and gave him a comforting pat on the back.

“Please, let me fix you something to help you sleep. You need to stay in here for a little while anyways, no point in being awake if you’re all alone. You’ll only get worried again.”

There was another long pause, but Sniper agreed.

“Yeah... that’s probably a good idea, doc,” he told him. Though his voice sounded like he was suppressing every emotion.

Medic went over again, and pulled some things from his cabinet, to mix stuff with. He got out a glass, and poured in something that Sniper heard slosh against the sides of its plastic container, and then must have dropped some sort of powder into the concoction as well, as he heard it being stirred. It didn’t matter what it was, if the doctor had wanted his organs, he’d have already taken them. He felt his hand on his shoulder again, then on his wrist to guide his hand to take the glass. In a quick motion, he polished it off and sighed. Medic took the glass from him, and went back to where he’d made the drug before, creating another.

“If you wake up before I’m back, I’m leaving this on the bedside table. Don’t drink this now, you’ll overdose,” he set it down and watched him. “It’s just on you’re right. You should be feeling the effects soon. In about four minutes. In ten you’ll be asleep.”

“When will you be back?”

“No more than nine hours, but it will feel like minutes to you so that shouldn’t be a worry.”

“What time is it?”

“Tchhhh,” he made a sound to let him know he’d heard and was working on an answer as he looked at his watch. “About eight in the morning. Why?”

“Eight?” He tried to think. The last time he’d checked it was noon. “How many days after the battle?”

“Not even one. You made a remarkable recovery, I must say. You’d lost so much blood, I thought you might be comatose.”

“Is that right?” he was leaned back now, though the doctor couldn’t help but notice how his breath quickened as his eyes shifted. “I... don’t even recall bleedin’,” he explained, slurring.

“Ja, well,” the doctor got up, trying to readjust the bed so he wouldn’t have any discomfort when he woke up again. “That’s probably a good thing, mein friend.”

He didn’t receive a reply as eyes gazed longingly for anything. He watched as they lazily shifted for a second. He wondered why he tormented himself, knowing he wouldn’t find any sight. Almost, he wanted to put a cloth over his eyes, just so he’d stop trying something so futile. But it wasn’t long before they closed, and he leaned back fully, drifting off into a dreamless, drug induced sleep, and that was a great comfort to the doctor. Callously, he went about his own business of patching himself up, and taking a hit from the medigun to fully heal it, before turning off the overhead lights and leaving him to stay alone in the dark. As he left, he looked back over his shoulder at the heart rate monitor that dipped far below what it had been.

He felt bad that he hadn’t even realized how fast his heart had beaten in fear, and how much will it must have took to not be more hysterical.

In the dining room, the men had gathered, and were looking to the doctor who was looking for something to drink and eat, not wanting the charred remains that the pyro was offering. He’d located some grape juice and was chugging it in front of everyone as they stared, waiting for an answer to the question they all felt. Most of them were confident that the doctor was about to say, ‘bah, he’s fine, why are you all staring at me like that?’ None expected him to finish the juice, and toss it into the garbage and look at them all. He slowly wiped his mouth and took off his glasses. At this, some people became more worried, and everyone had doubts. Heavy came to his side, and put a hand on his shoulder. They exchanged glances, and he turned to everyone, pulling away from the comforting touch as he took a seat to explain. The scout had just walked in. He quickly took his place, standing in the back and waiting for an explanation.

“Sniper is alive,” he told them all. No one breathed a sigh of relief. “He healed fine, mostly.” He almost laughed in the centre of his words. “But I couldn’t fix it all. His eyes, I just, there wasn’t much I could do! The nerves, they were destroyed.” He tried to justify his lack of success. He laughed a little now, defeatedly. “I could fix the way he moved them, the muscles there were hurt but I could get it! But the rest.” He made a motion with his hand, as if he’d thrown papers to the wind.

The room was silent, minus the pyro who tried not to burn this next attempt. Scrapping of the metal pan against the stovetop grated all their ears, and replaced the quiet tension with a sense of out of place normalcy.

“There’s no hope for Sniper?” Heavy prompted.

“I’ve tried my usual methods. Some unusual,” There was a hesitation. “I’m not going to give in completely to despair... but I’m doubtful.”

“How can you be doubtful?” Scout asked. “You’re like, a genius,” the compliment wasn’t backhanded in any way. He meant it. “You’ll fix it, obviously.”

Though the flattery was nice, no one moved to acknowledge. A flat quiet fell upon them as the pyro dished out the plate. It was burnt but not terribly so.

“I need to go to sleep,” the medic said. He got up, and left them. They all stayed still, watching as he went.

No one moved to discuss. The only sound that broke their void was the pop of the toaster and butter splattering against bread, a grating noise. Spy looked around to see who would speak first, but no one made any motion. Until the soldier came in, and walked into the kitchen, looking for water. He saw how quiet everyone was, and assumed the worse, looking down at the ground in respect to his perceived dead fellow soldier. Pyro left to go to the engineer’s room, apathetic to it all. The stiffness continued, until Heavy turned the flames on the stove off and went to follow Medic to their room. That was when everyone started to move again. Scout went to drink some orange juice, Spy indulged in his European breakfast, Soldier got some water, and Demo, hungover, walked in oblivious.

“What are you lot mopin’ around about?” he asked, tiredly.

“The Sniper is dead!” Soldier told him.

“What?” Demo turned to him in shock.

“He’s not dead, you dimwits,” Spy sloshed his coffee around in his mug. “He’s blinded.”

“Oh, don’t even start, Spy,” Scout taunted.

“Start what, exactly?” He put his coffee down and glared at his son.

“Callin’ us dimwits, thinking you’re better than everyone else here just ‘cause you wear a suit and tie right when you get up!”

And then a fight broke out, that was split up when the heavy came back and slammed his fist into the counter, telling them all off for being too loud when people needed to sleep. But for the rest of the day, glares and scoffs were exchanged, and the fighting was done through eye rolls and manufactured inconveniences.

Sniper woke up to humming. It seemed the doctor was in a lot better mood, and though panic instantly gripped him again, he tried to steady his breathing. He strained his eyes, hoping to see the faintest of light, the smallest glimmer of hope, but found nothing. He tried to be still, tried to be calm, but anxiety took him over again. He breathed, shallow and uncontrolled.

“Ah,” the doctor said. “You’re awake! I’m glad, I was starting to get worried about how long you were taking to come to again!” Cheerful. How could he be cheerful at a time like this? Sniper almost preferred that somber and dark tone he’d had before, but shook a little at the implications. At least high spirits usually meant hope.

“Did you find a cure?”

“Welllll,” he didn’t reply in a straight way, which made Sniper choke a little as he looked to the opposite direction. “Not exactly. However, I do have a few things that we can try! Maybe they will work.”

“All right,” he sounded so hopeful, the medic felt almost as if he’d strung him along despite believing full heartedly that he may have recovered by the novel methods. Sniper sat up. “Give’m to me!”

He walked over, and placed a vial into his hands. Turning it over, he tried to figure out what it may be. He looked up to where he’d assumed the voice originated from.

“What is it?”

“It’s a bottle of eye-drop medication. The stuff that comes in the health packs but extremely concentrated.”

Desperately, he fumbled to get it open, and dump its contents into his eyes. When Sniper did so, and nothing happened, Medic tried to be less pessimistic, despite knowing that if it would have worked, it would have been working the second it touched his eyes.

“How long does it take to work?”

He was met with silence.

“I’m afraid it’s lack of instant success marks it’s failure,” the doctor explained. Sniper wiped the excess liquid from his eyes, for the first time taking in the feeling of uneven skin around them. Though the scars were flat and not keloid, they had some texture to them.

“What’s next?”

“I’m still working on it, but this next serum goes in through an injection through your eye! Same method of concentrated health kit vunder-syrup.”

“What..?” Sniper asked.

“Ja, very simple. Don’t worry, I promise it won’t hurt,” he assured.

That wasn’t what he was worried about. He leaned forwards, feeling that sickly sensation of fear creep over him. What if he was stuck like this forever? The doctor never finding a cure? A useless tool in the ever expanding arsenal of mercenaries. Without his eyes, he was nothing. Maybe a top tier cloaked spy detector but not useful enough in battle. What about his job? Would he never be able to sit atop a building and protect his other teammates from afar? Would he never hunt again? Those days, in Australia as a child, hunting rabbits with his compound bow for dinner with his family so they didn’t have to kill one of their fat animals or buy food on a tight budget. It made him sick, the thought. Already, the image of his rifle and the practiced motion seemed so distant.

“Herr Sniper, relax. I’m almost done with this, and am certain if we tackle the problem directly at the nerve through the eyes the issue will be resolved! Lay down, now. Try to take deep breaths and have patience. You could have the other drink if you want, it may ease your suffering.”

“No, doc... I want to be awake the second there’s a chance there may be a cure.”

“All right, then. I’m afraid there’s a lack of entertainment in the infirmary, my dear friend. You’ll have to be content with my humming.”

Sniper didn’t reply. He laid back, however, and tried to ease his worries with the fact that the doctor seemed very confident.

After a few bits of nagging, the doctor was getting really annoyed. He wished to send Sniper away, somewhere else, but was so close to finding out a way to fix this - or so he felt in a maddened state - that he couldn’t find good reason to send him elsewhere. Besides the nagging, additionally, Sniper hadn’t replied to any other conversation. He didn’t want him to be alone, behaving so weird. Despite his quietness it was unlike him to ever be rude and outright ignore people. A knock came at the door. The medic turned to look but Sniper stayed still, pretending not to hear.

Scout walked in.

“Uhh, yo,” he started, awkwardly. “Sniper, you awake?”

There was a pause, so Medic replied for him.

“He’s awake, junge,” he told him, quietly.

“Oh, uhh,” awkwardly, Scout walked on quicker now. “Hey, Sniper. Oh, man, you’ve uhh... man, the chics are going to dig those scars, brother.”

Sniper didn’t reply, and Scout took that as an invitation to sit down beside him and chat.

“Medic told us you couldn’t see nothin’,” almost, there was almost a twitch of the eye. Being talked about was awful. “That sucks. But as long as you’re not deaf you can still listen to music and TV and stuff. And me! And that’s really all that’s important.”

He paused again to allow him to speak, knowing he rambled on a lot. There was not going to be any motion of reply in this conversation, and Medic and Sniper both knew it. Scout did not.

“So, you know, once you’re outta here and all, I’ve got some Tom Jones CDs we could give a spin. I know you don’t have a radio player but I’ve gotta boom box we could use!” A brief pause ensued. “Or whatever music you wanted. I wouldn’t mind listening to whatever crap the Australians got. Or we could just chill and uhh, listen to TV. I’ve got the game on my walkman, if you wanted to make a bet for it later on. I mean, no eyes required for any of that, you know?”

Medic so badly wanted to kick Scout out. He didn’t know if it was good for Sniper to have his friend around him or not.

“You doing okay, man?” He put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, and didn’t let go as he questioned the doctor. “Doc, he isn’t like, brain damaged right? He can still speak ‘n’ stuff? And isn’t like Soldier?”

His chance.

“Oh, haha! No! He’s fine, he’s fine! I just gave him something to get him to rest some more, so he didn’t get out of bed and move too quickly. Probably just really tired and groggy, ja? You remember how it felt, when you got shot in the leg, you had to be knocked out cold! He just needs to fully heal right!”

“Oh,” he looked back down at his friend. “Sorry, Snipes... didn’t realize.” Sniper shifted his eyes to look opposite of where he heard Scout, a little mad at himself that he didn’t give the guy some form of acknowledgement. He was just trying to lighten the mood, after all. “I guess I’ll let you get some more rest then. I’ll comeback later on,” he half leaned in, and under his breath so the medic couldn’t hear. “I’ll bring a blunt if you’re feeling up to it.”

Sniper just looked away, or maybe the right way to put it was stared aimlessly in the other direction.

“All... all right, then. See you later,” and somewhat disappointed, Scout got up to leave. Medic walked him to the door, and Sniper gave a neutral look once again.

“Scout,” he half whispered, “it’s nothing personal. Please, do come back.”

“I know, doc. I will,” sometimes, Scout didn’t seem nearly as stupid as he presented himself to be.

Later on they tried the second method, and much to the distaste of Sniper, it too failed to give any results. He took the serum and fell back asleep to make the time to pass quicker. However, when he woke again, he was adamant about getting a cure. He irked the doctor until he was told to be quiet or get kicked out. This only somewhat stifled his complaints.

After a few more attempts and a few more days of being pestered, Medic did eventually snap.

“Sniper, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kick you out of my lab,” Medic eventually said.

Sniper sat upright, confused and shocked, despite receiving many warnings.

“But I’m not fixed yet,” he tried to hold his temper knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere, but edging on the side of it.

“Ja, I’m aware, you’ve reminded me at least twenty times about what my job for the next while is until you are cured. But I can’t keep working with you... breathing right next to me!” It was such a strange thing to say, but it was the truth. The very fact he had to stand next to someone, hear them move, cough, shift their weight, whatever, made him on edge. It was only going to make his work all the more slow. And with the sniper going through phases of rational thought and panic, the sound of hyperventilation would always make him stop to watch if he was all right.

“Where am I even going to go? I don’t know where anything around the base is, I won’t be able to find my way to my van,” he explained.

“Ja, that is a problem...” he contemplated. “How about I get Demo to take you there and you can go about trying to map out your... living arrangement?” Medic never called his van a van or a camper for some reason. He’d called him a vagrant, once, but it seemed to Sniper he just didn’t really get it.

“You want the drunk to guide me like some crippled grey hair?”

“He’s actually very good at it, Sniper. His mother became blind when he was really young, and he had to help her a lot. She visited once, don’t you remember? I’m sure it will be fine. Or, you could stumble out of here and get lost in the desert.”

Sniper thought about it for a little while, staying quiet. He figured, despite wishing desperately to pester Medic to find out how to get his sight back, that being alone for a bit may have been a good thing. He didn’t want to have to ignore Scout again, or feel the prying eyes of the others trying to console him in their silence. The only real issue was Demo. The guy was kind of sociable. He hoped he’d leave as soon as he got him to his van.

“I’ll go get him. Stay here, okay?” He put a comforting hand on his shoulder before he left to get the bomb expert.

In the hallway, Scout was outside, throwing a ball against the wall. Medic had assumed the fan had gone haywire, and was glad when he stopped his little game.

“Hey, doc. How’s Sniper?”

The doctor stood still for a second, as Scout stood up, to peak inside. He blocked his view.

“He’s doing better, Scout. He is trying to get used to the new... problem we have,” he didn’t call it what it was. Scout tried to get past him, but was stopped. “Not yet.”

“Come on, man. I want to see him. It’s-,” he got cut off.

“It’s out of the question, is what it is.”

“Why?”

“Because I really think you should be leaving the more experienced people to this, Scout.”

“What? I’m a grown man, and so is he. Let me see him, doc!”

He stopped him again from trying to force his way through. Sniper, he knew, would have just been awful to him, given he didn’t outright ignore him once more. He would not do that to Scout, despite his prior insistence on him returning.

“You are a grown man, yes,” he said, quickly, leaning in. “But you have never seen the aftermath of war, boy. Only heard stories of it. If he wants to see you, I’m sure he’ll try to get you.”

“Wow,” Scout gave a scoff. “You think just because you got t’ set some Nazi’s broken bones you’re that much better than me?”

“Scout,” Medic pinched the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat and sighed, knowing he needed to not cause a disturbance. “He will see people when he wants to see people.”

“He’s not going to see again, is he? Is that why you’re keeping him away from everyone?”

“I’m not keeping him away from everyone,” he grabbed him by his upper arm as he tried to get in again. “Just you.”

“What? Why?” Scout didn’t try to get away but just stared at him in shock.

“Because you don’t know the first thing about how to deal with this, Scout!”

“I shouldn’t have to deal with it, I just want to be a good friend! You’re supposed to deal with it!” he shouted back.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

“’I’m a maniac who hates seeing other people happy,’ that’s what you just said,” he imitated his accent.

Medic didn’t reply as he walked him away from the infirmary, Scout stumbling, and pulling against him.

“LET ME SEE HIM!”

He dragged him up the hallway and let go of him in the main common room, letting him angrily swear.

“What is little baby man screaming about?”

“The fucking sociopath won’t let me talk to Sniper!”

“Why is Doctor not letting little Scout see Sniper?” Heavy asked, munching on a sandwich.

“Because he’s going to make a mess of things.”

“Sniper would like friend, Doctor,” Heavy protested. Medic shot him a dark look, his eyes narrowed. There were two ways that one could be warned of imminent danger with Medic. One, they could see the guy reaching for his syringe gun, or if they were lucky, they could get a glance of narrowed eyes. Heavy shut up after that. “Doctor knows best, Scout.”

“What? You too, Heavy? Can’t no one stand up to this guy? He’s obviously up to something!”

Angrily, he marched away to his room. Everyone who was present was silent. Which meant that Heavy, Medic, Demoman, Soldier who didn’t know what was going on, Engineer who was eating his first meal away from his bed, and Pyro had nothing to input. For a second everyone was looking at the ground, minding their business.

“Doctor should let little man see Sniper,” Heavy said, wishing to change his mind. “If Sniper is sick, little man will make him feel better, da?”

“It wasn’t me who didn’t want him to see him, Heavy,” he spat back. “Demo, come with me, take Sniper back to his room-car.”

When they left, the room returned to an uncomfortable silence.

Sniper had swung his legs around the side of the bed, and was hunched over, holding his stomach uncomfortably. He wanted to go to sleep and wake up when they found a cure. He planned to lay down and not move until that happened. If he could have, he would have stayed in the infirmary until the solution was found. He was a little upset that he couldn’t, still. When Demo and Medic walked in, he tried to gauge how close they were but couldn’t for the lack of practice.

“Hey, mate,” Demo said, trying not to sound too pitying. “You ready to go back to yer camper?”

“Yeah,” Sniper sounded so awkward. Just like how he did in his first year of being part of the team. Medic and Demo exchanged nervous glances, and walked about to his side.

“I’ve got some medicine to help you sleep,” Medic explained, walking to a cabinet. Demo went to Sniper’s side but didn’t move yet. “Here it is. Take one tablet if you’re already starting to fall asleep but can’t, and two if it’s really bad. Try not to take it too much, though.” He reached for his arm, a slight flinch of reaction, and put the bottle in his hands. “You’ll get used to it and it won’t work.”

“Thanks, doc,” he said, quietly. Medic did not understand the sudden shift to complacency. There was another pause and Demo thought it best to act then.

“C’mon, mate,” he grabbed him from his elbow to help him up. “There ye go, lets getchya home.”

Sniper didn’t like it, not one bit. He was so awkward at the touch, his entire body stiffened and told him to pull away. He didn’t like the power of it either, the fact that he had to hang onto him for dear life, and that he could make all the decisions and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, being ill trained in how to cope. He staggered to his feet, and leaned against him, having not yet gotten up. Demo held him, slightly. He could tell he was uncomfortable. He could tell despite his eyes being the focus, that his body was not right either.

“I’ll come and see you when I’ve found something. So long,” Medic said. Sniper grunted in return to show he’d heard, and they were off.

“All right, watch yer step, couple of stairs up,” he instructed, watching and directing his arm to the railing on the other side. “There ye are.”

They continued to walk, Sniper remaining silent and fearful. He tried to look around as he normally would but saw absolutely nothing, and he knew it was redundant.

“Is there anyone else around us?” his voice sounded shaky. Demo had heard him whisper and get anxious when there was more than one other person in the room with him, but he’d never heard him sound like that. It was almost as if he were another man. He was, really. One that had to rely on someone else. He was self sufficient before, could live off the land, fix his own camper, hunt his own meals, build his own fire. Now, he was quiet, and couldn’t do any of those things.

“Uhh, no, lad. We’re not near the commons room yet. They won’t say anything, though, I promise.”

That was what he feared. That pitiful silence that befell those who were in pain, or in loss. He almost stepped closer to his lifeline, but just couldn’t. Bile rose, and he wished he was back home, laying on the ground of the bathroom in his parents’ farmhouse.

“Here, another bit of stairs here,” he warned. They slowed down, and again, he helped him to grab the railing as they ascended from the basement laboratory hallway to the common room hallway.

In the distance, he could hear their voices. Though he couldn’t quite make out the words, he knew what they must be saying. They were probably all going to treat him like some cancer kid. Pitiful, only there until he wasn’t anymore. Weak, defenceless, and needing protection from the world. That annoyed him, that made him anxious. He was the one to do that, not them. He was the one to watch over them and their stupid game of war. He was their protector. He clenched at his stomach, wishing he could blink and be away from everyone. Be at home. Or above all else, be cured of the blind gaze he now kept on his face. They entered the room, and he could feel a burning heat rush to his face as eyes pierced his skin.

“Well...” Engineer broke the silence. “How you feelin’, Sniper?”

“Oim fine,” he said shortly. His tone was clear. ‘Leave me alone.’

People watched as they walked out of the room, and then looked back to one another. Heavy finished the last of his sandwich and started to do the dishes, trying his best to not say a word or weigh in as the others resumed silence.

“All right, let me get tha door for ye, there you go, lad,” he pushed open a heavy metal barricade, and pulled him through as he awkwardly positioned himself to hold it. “Do you have a shower an’ everything in yer van? I can’t remember.”

“Yeah,” Sniper thought for a second. “What’s it to you?”

“Well, you know,” he paused for a second. “Yer all covered in soot and shite, thought you’d want te get yourself cleaned up. If ye didn’t have one I’d a had to taken you to the communal ones.”

Sniper hadn’t even thought of that. Basically, Demo had just told him in the nicest way possible that he needed a shower, because he smelt and was covered in dirt. With the commotion his mind could only think about blindness. He looked down, ashamed, away from the source of the suggestion. He could hear his shoes scrape a little more as concrete turned to gravel.

“You uh, won’t need help, will ya?” Demo asked, pleadingly.

“What? No, just take me to the door and leave me there,” he told him, angrily.

Gravel turned to sand.

The two kept silent for a bit.

“You know, I understand. I’m practically blind too, and me mum fully is. I’m not goin’ judge yeh if you need help, mate.”

“I don’t need help besides getting there,” he snarled back at him. “And you don’t understand because you can do your job blind.”

Demo resisted the urge to snap back an insult at him as they reached the truck. He only sighed, and opened the door, letting him in. He helped him touch the nearest counter and looked for a second inside. The place was a mess, clothes strewn about, cans of food on the counters. It didn’t look like a complete wreck, but he knew that for his mother at least, a mess meant she wouldn’t be able to find anything, whatsoever. He looked between Sniper and the ground, letting him go. He could get why Sniper wanted to be alone. He knew he must have been embarrassed to be in a position like he was, since that was his nature. As his friend, he really didn’t want to leave.

“Yer goin’ to trip, mate,” he said, quietly letting him go as Sniper felt his way around the van through the means of the counter space.

“No, I’m not. Thank you for taking me here, but I’m fine by myself, Demo.”

“I’m pleadin’ with you here, lad, please let me help ye.”

Sniper didn’t reply, and Demo sighed, as he quietly went. He walked a few paces, before hearing him close the door to be left.

Sniper felt the counter, and like Demo said, he knew that he needed help with this. When he’d left the day before he’d been trying to reorganize and clean up a little, taking all the expired stuff out that Soldier had gifted him a while back, having never been too fond of canned food. He knew it lasted forever but he just could never eat the tinned soups. They were all fine, really. His foot caught on something, and he fell to his knees, gripping onto the counter. Pain shot through his stomach. The grip he had on the counter tightened. He felt around for a second. His jacket. He’d hoped he hadn’t ripped it, but as he felt, he could feel the broken seems. It was then that he dropped the old thing on the ground, and hugged a knee to his chest, and buried his face into the end of his thigh. Though he didn’t cry, he felt like sobbing. He could smell the explosion on himself, fiery and painful. The blood which stained his tattered clothes, and the uneven coverage.

He got up again, feeling his way over to the shower, and touching his small cabinet, looking for his wife beater and underwear to wear after. He didn’t really care how he looked, knowing that anything was probably better than how he appeared now.

He grabbed a black pair and an old one that made him look a lot thinner than what he was with how loose it was. It didn’t matter. At least they both felt nice. He went into the bathroom, stripped, and fixed the water to the right temperature. At least some things never changed, and he turned it to the hottest setting as he always had, before getting in. He cleaned up, only knowing by touch that the blood was washed, and the soot scrubbed away. There was extra time allotted to his face. Gently, he’d scrubbed it, feeling at his eyes. Smoother skin, showing just how bad the scarring was, gave it an off texture. It was as healed over as it would ever be. He felt that it was all thin, all minimal, and this was where he couldn’t help but sink down to his knees and let the water wash on him. Why had something that felt so small take so much? Why couldn’t it have hit him in his ears and made him deaf, or in his throat, and made him mute?

Why couldn’t it have just killed him?

He laid there for a bit. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he fully realized his body again, the water was cold, and he breathed in sharply. Slowly, he got up and turned off the shower. He went out, and grabbed the old towel he’d been using for a week, and patted himself dry, before getting his clothes on. He didn’t know if his shorts were on backwards but he’d messed up his shirt, and had had to readjust. Slowly, he’d gotten it right, and leaned over the small sink. He tried to picture himself in the mirror, a pathetic version of a man he once had been, but found himself already forgetting his features. He paused, and moved his hands around to the corner of the cabinet, and reached for where he kept his razor blades, after feeling his scruff.

He sprayed some shaving cream into his hands, and took the blade. Normally he’d just shave sloppily as fast as he could, but now he spent a meticulous time doing it. He couldn’t tell other wise, with no way to see his face if he was doing a good job other than touch. When he was done, there was a couple of nicks but it was mostly fine. He looked his age for once. Like an actual twenty something year old, rather than a washed out late thirties early forties kind of guy. He rinsed his face and patted it dry too, feeling clean. He wished he could have seen what he looked like, because he couldn’t imagine it. The last time he actually shaved fully was when he’d first joined the team, and even then he had only kept it like that for a month or so before getting lazy again.

Outside of the bathroom, the van was cool. He figured it must have been dark out to get this sort of breeze from the desert, and accordingly staggered over to his window to open it more. The night air didn’t soothe him, so he went back to the bathroom, and grabbed the drugs from his clothes pocket, having a rough time getting there, before dry swallowing a couple. Nausea threatened, but he wouldn’t let those pills go to waste. He almost crawled over to his bed, lanky form not quite fitting but comfortably getting himself into fetal position, and closing his eyes. Already, the night noises of distant coyotes were starting to fade, and a deep sleep came over him once again.

That night, dreams didn’t elude him.

He was sitting on the porch of his old house, drinking a watered down version of his family moonshine. His feet were slung over one side of the chair, and his neck the other. He was staring at the ceiling, jar in hand slipping. On the ground, two other jars were about. His face was flush.

It was a nice night.

He must have forgotten something in the dream, because the next thing that happened was his father standing over him, a hand on his head, messing up his hair. The man had said something, and was awaiting a reply. When all he received was a drunken, ‘what?’ he’d laughed.

The occurrence of an event like this wasn’t rare. When he was a younger teenager, his parents had allowed him to drink, figuring since he didn’t have much friends he wouldn’t get the real experience of teenage life without a little intervention. They’d always wanted him do it in the house in comparison to a place that he could have gotten himself into trouble in. Before his growths spurt, he could remember the countless times his dad had carried him up the stairs to his room, the only memory from his blackout drunkenness.

“You need to build a tolerance, boy,” he’d recalled.

His father had patted him on the head, and was going to go and sit next to him, having a rest after a long day on the farm.

“I know you want to get out of the country, Mick. But don’t you think it’ll be nicer if you just stay here? Take care of the farm and then us? Pay me back for the times I’ve had to take care of you when you’re like this?” This line of conversation did not fit for the time. The age he was in the dream must have been before he was eighteen, as he was smaller. He had not come to the realization he needed out of Australia until he was twenty one and fully grown.

“...all right, dad... I’ll stay... to pay ye back,” he’d been slurring badly.

“Watch yourself, when drinking that, Mick. Don’t want to end up blind like your uncle, do you?”

They’d laughed. His uncle never became blind from moonshine, but from gasoline to the eyes when trying to fix a car. He was a good humoured man, on the rare times he’d seen him. It was too bad that he’d died two years after he’d joined RED. He liked him.

His mother had sobbed on the phone and he’d had no way to console her.

“Then I wouldn’t be able t’ take care of you when you became a grey hair,” he’d slapped back, much to limited reaction. “You’d have to take care a me instead!” He’d laughed, drunkenly, his drink slipping from his hands and spilling on the ground.

“Ahh, Mick, you’ve made a right mess now,” his father told him. He offered an apologetic look but knew not to speak. His father forgave him at the expression, and sighed, half reaching over and grabbing his ankle. To show he was there, a lazy way of patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll always be here to take care of you and yer mum, you know that.”

And then he woke up, wishing he hadn’t as the world faded to black once again. He hoped that his dreams would never become as his reality, but he figured that the mind worked in weird ways, and soon enough that memory would be replaced with a version with no imagery.

He hugged his pillow, wishing to bear witness to the world once again.

Scout woke up nice and early in the morning. He ran outside, as fast as he could, still angry from the night before. He’d barely rested, he’d been so mad. All he wanted to do was to beat Medic with a baseball bat, sometimes. When he saw the window had changed to the van on his run, though, that’s when he figured that Sniper must have somehow gotten away. Or maybe someone had broken in? He’d stopped the jog, and looked at it from afar, before going up and walking to the front door. Countless times, he’d come in uninvited, but this felt the most intrusive. Lucky for Scout, he didn’t really care. He went up, and walked in, calling for his friend.

“Snipes? You here, Snipe- oh, there you are. Sorry, did I wake you?”

Sniper hadn’t really moved, and bit his tongue to tell him to get out. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep again, Scout would leave, and he’d be alone. Or if it was a spy for some reason working off duty, he’d kick him by surprise, the only way he’d be able to do any fighting with one in such a state.

“Did Medic drug you up again?” he walked over, awkwardly. Oh. So it wasn’t a spy. “What’s this guy giving you, man?”

He went over and looked at him, trying to see if he was awake at all, even partially. But he couldn’t find any sign of it. So, quietly, he put a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him a little.

“Sniper?” he asked.

Sniper figured he wasn’t going to leave. He half opened his eyes.

“Oh, hey! Sorry. God, you look-... did you shave? You actually look like me now,” he laughed nervously. Sniper resumed his gaze forwards, to try and ignore Scout. “I thought chicks would have dug you with the scars, but brother now you’re going to be a lady magnet. You shoulda done this ages ago!”

Sniper swallowed at the dryness of his throat, and started to sit up.

“Scout, what time is it?” he asked, not truly fully awake yet.

“Uhh,” he checked his watch. “Ten. It’s around ten,” he lied, having gotten up at six.

“Did Medic find a cure?” he asked, hopefully thinking that maybe he’d been sent to go get him.

Scout looked down at the ground after seeing the expression on his face, and remained silent for a couple of seconds. He fidgeted with the wrap on his arm.

“I don’t think so, Snipes. But I’m makin’ sure he doesn’t leave his lab until he does, so don’t worry!”

Under different circumstances, Sniper would have laughed. Instead, he just disappointedly looked at the ground. Or rather turned his head to it, assuming no eye contact there.

“You want something to eat?” Scout asked, looking around. “Boy, your room’s a mess. My ma would kill me if she ever found my place like this. Where do you keep your food again? What did you say you wanted to eat?”

Scout was going too fast for him to keep up.

“I’m not hungry, mate,” Sniper said, as politely as he could. He sounded irritable. Perhaps even slightly scared. Scout didn’t reply, and made silence so that he’d continue on. However, Sniper didn’t. He just kind of hunched over, and kept staring at the ground.

“Oh... well. That’s okay. You wanna coffee then?”

“No, I really don’t want anything.” He would have stated the obvious but he didn’t want to be a downer.

“Can I help you clean up a bit? I don’t want y-.”

“You’re not me mum, Scout. Just leave me alone,” he finally cut him off, angry.

“I’m just trying to help. You’re going to need all the help you can get until you either get better or learn to live with it. Come on, you’ve got knives laying all over the place. You’re going to trip and fall with all your shit on the ground.”

Sniper sighed, and laid down, not energetic enough to make a quip back or to deny him.

Scout didn’t hesitate to take this as an invite to do what he wanted to do. He started to put the cans of food away, stacking them into the lockable cabinets, and sliding their deadbolt shut. Even though the van wouldn’t be moving for a bit, he wanted to keep it how he liked it. Usually Sniper was very clean, because if he weren’t, every time he’d take the truck out it would have broken all that he owned. Scout picked up some knives, a kukuri and his machete, wondering where to put them. He left them on the table for now and got to getting all of the dirty clothes off the ground, and putting them into the hamper in the closet. He’d do them later for him, if he wanted. Magazines on rifles littered the counters as well, and dirty dishes. He ran some water, cleaned and dried them, before he stacked them away too.

“Where do you want your knives?” Scout asked.

“They go in underneath the sink... the code for the door is 1234.”

“Why even have a code if it’s so simple?”

“The Spy seems to not understand how to work the padlock. I caught ‘em once, trying to force it open. Stupid wanker.”

“Ha! Who did he disguise as?”

“Me. It was pretty funny, actually. He looked up at me and was all confused. I don’t know what he was hoping to find there but... well,” he shrugged, not knowing where he was headed with that one.

“Well, spies like to think they’re all high and mighty, smarter than even Medic or Engie, but they’re just as dumb as the rest of us,” Scout agreed.

Uncomfortable at his attire, having only just now realized what he must have looked like, and uncertain of what he’d even chosen, Sniper went to cover himself a little with the bed sheets, leaning back against the wall as he did so. Scout went back to cleaning. He was happy to have been able to help. Demo had told him about how much Sniper had wanted to be alone and how worried he was if he’d be able to find food and all of that, so he was glad to have gotten in on what needed doing. He finished the dishes and slid the deadbolt so they would not all pour out when the truck moved again. He also wiped up the counter, and pushed a few magazines into the bookshelf. He’d known where that was having traded a few comics, and other magazines. More tasks needed completion, in the bathroom especially, so he went there next and got to picking up the bloody clothes and putting away razors and such.

They were close, but not this close. He’d never gone poking around in his cabinets or gone about making things look nicer. His mother had taught him very well, how to be clean. Sniper usually was only clean because he had to be, or else his things would break in his van. Its stationery positioning had made it lose the facade of organization more than once, but this time was especially inconvenient for its resident. Scout fixed that, to the best of his abilities, putting things away, and picking up the towels. He dumped it all into the clothes bin and when he was done, sat down. The cleaning was a distraction from the silence. For some odd reason, Sniper made the first move to talk. It was very unusual and out of character.

“Scout, where did they put my rifle?”

“Your... your rifle?” he was taken aback. What a strange thing to think about. He guessed it was better than him thinking about his eyes. “Oh, well. I think we left it on the battlefield.”

“You left my two thousand dollar sniper rifle on the ground?”

“Well... unless Soldier came and got it after. He likes doing that, after a battle. Getting trophies.”

“Soldier has it? Scout, that’s my favourite one,” he told him.

Scout honestly couldn’t even remember which rifle he’d been using.

“What one was it, pal?”

“The Machina,” Sniper got up, and tripped a little on the bedside table, his foot slamming into the side. Angrily, he bit down on his tongue to try and make it seem like he wasn’t as bothered as he was.

“Easy, Snipes. Sit down, we’ll get it! Don’t you want to put on some clothes first?” Scout offered, quietly getting up and touching his arm to help him know where he was.

“Don’t touch me!” he’d shouted. “I’m not daft, I can find the damned closet myself.”

“Whoa, hey! Fine!” Scout backed off, not liking that side of him. Prior to blindness, Sniper whenever he was angry, would hide away from everyone. Climb up a tower and pout for a bit before making peace with whatever was bothering him, without the intervention of the offending party at all. Now that everyone was crowding him, he snapped, and flinched at the smallest bit of warmth. As if by their help he was being accused of uselessness and incompetency. He went to the closet, and opened it, trying to feel the fabric. Scout looked down, thinking he shouldn’t have been watching. “I’ll go outside. Wait for you there, Sniper,” he told him, trying not to let his voice seem as though he were upset at the sudden jolt of aggression.

Sniper didn’t reply as he focused on the task at hand. He counted five drawers down, and pulled it open, trying to feel for his pants. He couldn’t tell if it was the dark grey ones or the light beige ones that he touched, or if they were the regular tattered grey ones he’d always worn, but they felt like the usual so he got them on. Then, socks, and his shirt. He pulled it over and stumbled about, trying to get himself to feel presentable. His belt was another issue. He couldn’t get it to tie, having put it on the wrong way, and when he corrected it, he had difficulties figuring out if his shirt looked just tucked in enough to be professional or if it was too pushed out. In frustration, he kicked the drawer and leaned over in, anger boiling up inside. His mind swam. But he wanted his gun back and he was determined. He felt for another vest jacket and pulled it over what he was wearing, wondering where his hat had gone. Probably missing forever, if not destroyed.

His father had given him that hat.

He needed the Machina back.

The thought of someone touching it and dirtying the barrel made him seethe and he didn’t know why. Like all the other mercs, he loved his guns and weapons. He took care of them the same way everyone else did, with spy oiling the bearings of his balisong, and Heavy protectively watching over his minigun, barely allowing Medic to touch it, and being downright murderous to those less acquainted. His safe, harbouring the others, felt unreal with any missing arms away from its protective hold. It was for the same reason that Soldier was uncharacteristically gentle in loading his rockets, and Pyro far more likely to coddle his flamethrower over anything else, and Engineer to feel as though he lost his life’s work when a spy sapped his sentry that Sniper needed it back. He slipped on his shoes, and felt for the door, slowly going through the door and feeling the railing down to the ground.

“You look pretty good, Sniper,” Scout said, genuinely. He did. A little roughed up, maybe, slightly sloppy in his placement of collar with his jacket, but overall, he looked very normal. If not for the lacking stubble, he would have looked entirely the same. Now, he looked almost innocent. Age was never much of a discussion with the mercenaries. Scout knew who was around his age and who wasn’t and that was fine. But he’d never really thought of Sniper as looking like himself, looking as though he didn’t belong on the battle field. The creases in his skin from the thinness still made him look older than him, but he didn’t look as hardened anymore. Instead, he looked very lost. “So... Uhh, how do you want to do this, then?”

“Do what? What do you mean?” Sniper asked, irritably. For all his youthful looks he behaved like someone bitter and old. He started to walk, careful of foot placement.

“Well, you know. Getting to the base. If I can’t touch ya, you know, without you freaking out or whateva, then how am I supposed to get you to Soldier?”

“I can make it there myself, I don’t need you,” he snarled at him.

“Yeah, yeah. Right. But you’re about to walk into the-,” it was too late. Smacked right into his face, the electrical pole. He staggered back, and Scout didn’t move. He knew he was angry. Probably seething in all honesty, and he didn’t want him to snap at him. For a couple of seconds, Sniper just put his hand to the hot metal and leaned against it. It took everything not to fall to his knees and just give up and let the sun bake him to death. Scout slowly walked over.

There were no words to describe how mortified he felt. How he knew his anger was childish, and how much he hated himself for still allowing himself to get mad at his good intentioned friends. His friends, who despite his uselessness, still stayed by his side. He stared at the ground, an old habit of never meeting anyone in the eyes kicking in. Scout put a hand on his back, silently, and feeling where he was, Sniper touched his arm as a way of saying, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not going to not accept your help. I need you to guide me, but I’m so embarrassed that I can’t put words to it.’ Scout didn’t get the nuances, but he understood that he was now willing to accept his help. He started to walk, and Sniper allowed himself to be guided, as uncomfortable as he was.

“You all right? Nose isn’t broke?”

“Yeah... it’s fine.”

“Good. Don’t worry, Sniper. In no time, Medic is going to find a cure, and you’re going to be back to shooting at the spies. I guarantee it. Just think of it as a holiday. You get to relax and sleep all day long!”

Sniper smiled a little, but quickly dropped it, not having the energy to laugh or show him that he was thankful that he tried to make light of the situation. Scout opened the door, and they walked into the base. It was dead silent inside, except for the clattering of some dishes. Someone was about to make breakfast, and Scout assumed it was Pyro. Since he was in a similar situation to what Scout was doing, except taking care of Engineer instead, they’d crossed pathed a few times. Scout always scowled, not forgiving him for his actions with Sniper. When he found that instead of Pyro it was Spy instead, he didn’t know if it was better or worse. Spy looked over his shoulder, stopping the cooking for a second. Then he looked to Scout to see if he should say something or remain quiet, to which Scout shrugged.

“Hello, Sniper. You’re looking a lot better,” he told him, finding his less haggled appearance far more pleasing.

“G’day, Spy,” was all he said.

“Uhhh,” Scout said after a long pause. “You know where Soldier is? We need to find him.”

“In fact, I do. He’s outside feeding some wild raccoons, just around the back.”

“Oh, great.” Scout breathed a sigh of frustration.

“What you’re looking for isn’t with him anyways. Demoman took it last night and put it on the common room table thinking you’d want it back. No one’s touched it since then, I assure you.”

Whether he’d been spying, or he just assumed and guessed correctly was not an issue for Sniper. He didn’t care. His hands itched to feel the cool metal pressed against him again.

“Perfect,” Scout said. Then, sarcastically, “thanks, Spy!”

“Thanks, mate,” Sniper added, quietly, genuinely. The two left.

The short trek was made quickly. Sniper almost fell down the stairs with his eagerness to have it back, and they’d finally made it to the common room where Heavy was reading. He put his book down when the pair came in, and watched as Scout pulled him to the table and helped him reach for the gun. He didn’t say anything when he saw him pick it up and hold it close to his body, and only looked back down at his book, wondering if he should say something, or clear his throat. Being a quiet man himself, he decided to go with the latter.

“Oh, uhh, yeah. Guess I oughta mention Heavy is here, too,” Scout informed him.

He was met with no reply as Sniper felt his rifle, trying to tell if it was damaged at all. He knew every single one of his rifles as well as he knew how to breathe. Every dent and when it was made and where it came from. Every sight, and its placement. The only exception was the Huntsman which he didn’t care for as much. The Machina didn’t seem right to him. He could feel it was dirty, mud all around the base and side. The sight was damaged, sharp metal jutting out. Most damning was the slight bend of the barrel. Useless, from the rocket. Just like him. He held it like he used to, anyways, thriving in the familiar weight and keeping it close. It calmed him greatly to have.

“Did Sniper wish to be in the base with the others? His room is still untouched,” Heavy said. “Would maybe be useful to have closer.”

There was a pause where they all waited for him to reply, but he didn’t care. All he could do was slide his thumb down the side of the metal to try and find any new nicks or dents, and map out where they were.

“I don’t think so, Heavy. I think he just wanted to get his rifle back,” Scout said for him. “Isn’t dat right, Snipes?” he gave him a pat on the back to get his attention.

“Oh? Uhh, yeah. Right.” He hadn’t heard him really.

Scout and Heavy exchanged nervous glances. For a second, Heavy wondered if Sniper was feeling all right. Having hit his head in the fall, he wondered if this was the aftermath, or if he’d always been like this and this was just a side he’d never seen, given he’d never been truly separated from his weapons before. Heavy understood. His minigun was often a comfort to him. Something he took care of in case he needed to protect his loved ones. Something he couldn’t sleep soundly without it next to him. Maybe for Sniper it was also a comfort to have.

“If Sniper and Scout are here, then they should wait for breakfast which is soon. Avoid more walk.”

“I’m hungry, what about you, Snipes?”

“No, I’m not. Can you please take me back to my van?”

“Oh, well,” he sucked in air through his teeth, and looked at Heavy who offered no help. He wondered if he should have been forcing him to eat since he hadn’t. “Yeah, sure, whatever you want, brotha’.”

He went over and touched his arm to guide him, everyone ignoring the slight flinch at the action, and started to pull him away. Heavy watched as they left, uncertain if he should have been stopping them to keep him close to the base or if it was good to have him be alone, and self sufficient. He got up, and walked over to the kitchen, slowing following behind them.

“What was that?” Sniper asked, abruptly stopping.

“What was what, Sniper?”

“Extra footsteps. I can hear them, there’s a Spy behind us,” he said, leaning in to whisper.

“Oh what? No, that’s just Heavy, he’s been following us.”

“...Are you sure?” he whispered, paranoia becoming worse.

“Well. Yeah. It was him,” he tried to assure. Sniper stood up right and they started to walk again, but he didn’t seem too convinced of his status. He walked a little quicker, and slightly desperate to get away.

Heavy didn’t follow, waiting for them to leave, seeing the nervousness. He felt bad. What he wanted to do was to make Sniper stay at the base. Being more vulnerable now, he felt it was his job to protect him, and keep him as close as possible. Though, he understood his need to be away from everyone as well. A lot of people needed solitude and he respected that. He wasn’t one of them, but Medic was, and he knew the highest honour he’d ever been given by him was being able to freely walk into his lab and chat without being ushered to leave as he did the others. For Scout, he figured that it was the highest honour as Sniper’s friend to be let into his van, especially now. Demo had said how quick he was to kick him out to be left alone, so when Scout had managed seemingly so effortlessly to get Sniper to go out, it came to no surprise to Heavy that it was him.

“There you go,” he said, holding the door to the outside of the base open for him again, and starting to walk back to the van. “Say, Snipes, you think you’re going to be able to get things to eat and stuff? I know you’ve got those cans of food, but you’re good to get them open and cook them too, right?”

“What?” Sniper wasn’t paying as much attention anymore. In fact, his mind was in another place all together. He was trying as hard as he could to find out if the barrel was bent just by touch. He just couldn’t tell. “Yeah, I’m fine, mate.”

“Oh, well, yeah. Thought you’d be. Obviously.” Scout felt he should shut up. “Watch it,” he pulled him closer. Sniper became disoriented and went to glare. Scout looked up, figuring he needed to explain. “The electrical pole, Sniper. Jeez.”

For a second he almost apologized, but thinking about how he hadn’t wanted anyone’s help to begin with he remained silent, anger still boiling inside of him about how everyone was staring at him with a pitiful expression. One he couldn’t see but could feel in the hesitance it took them to choose their words around him.

“All right, a few steps up,” he guided, and Sniper went to feel his familiar door, opening it and walking in. Scout didn’t follow. Sniper was always so stoic and never angry. As much as he wanted to help his friend he knew it was best to just leave him alone. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, bye,” and the door was closed.

Inside, Sniper went about his business. He touched the gun, and laid it down on the table, going over to retrieve his cleaning supplies from the drawer. He felt the old cloth he used, and the stand he set the weapon on, and the cleaner. He went over and sat down. There was something oddly cathartic about it. The feeling one got with a long hot shower after a gruelling day of work was probably the closest of what could be described there. The lack of sensations he’d felt when he’d gone home for the first time were now all pouring in. The familiarity of his camper, despite the fact he could see none of it, and the act of cleaning himself up after being in the infirmary. All of that had been nothing, but cleaning the rifle? It all rushed in. He smoothed the metal with the cloth until he could run his fingers over it without it feeling dirty. The sight was broken, loose and now useless. He couldn’t help but laugh at that. Battered, and dented. Blind, and unable to aim correctly. He leaned his head against the table and touched the chamber and the grip, resting his hand along the top.

“I’ll get Engineer to fix you... when I can go out and get him,” he said to the inanimate object.

He got up, and felt the counter until he located the safe cabinet, and fiddled with the lock, opening it and being thankful Scout hadn’t messed up the pad when he’d relocked it. The gun, he safely stowed in its rightful place, before shutting the door once again and going to lay down after tossing the rag back into its place along with the other materials. He needed to keep it as clean as possible because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it himself. The bed was welcome. He didn’t even take off his shoes, but curled up in on himself, and closed his eyes. It was then that it struck him that he didn’t even have to be awake, so he sat up and reached for the pills at the bedside, and dry swallowed a few. He hadn’t remembered how much to take, but he also knew he wasn’t taking enough to overdose. He got back into bed, and closed his eyes, wondering if the lights were on still.

Scout left and went back to the kitchen, hungry. Spy put a plate of food down in front of him, and he ate hastily, almost angrily. The spy watched, amused.

“I didn’t think I was that good of a cook.”

“Spy makes best pancakes,” Heavy said, as he’d been eating them.

“Crepes, my friend, not pancakes,” Spy corrected for the hundredth time.

Silence ensued again. Spy sat down and smoked as they ate, reading the paper and enjoying himself. No one talked to Scout. Both knew he was upset. Both knew to just stay out of it. Spy wasn’t really in the mood to push anyone’s buttons, and despite all their facade of trying to seem normal, Heavy and Medic had a little quarrel the night before, so Heavy wasn’t too keen to talk anyways. Overall it was a very dark mood, with Sniper’s unexpected circumstance.

Scout got up and left after clearing his plate - something he never did - and went to his room to go find his bat and baseballs to take to the desert.

“I suppose that having his gun back didn’t make him normal again as Scout had hoped.”

“Heavy does not think Sniper will ever be normal again.”

Spy looked up from his food.

“What do you mean?”

“If Medic has not found cure by now, then he won’t later on.”

“You can’t be serious. Sometimes it takes him forever to figure something out. We all thought we were about to die for three days until he figured out the truth about the bread.”

“Da, is true. But that was not entirely medical. Medic took long because of teleporter. Not because of tumour.”

“Whatever you say, fat man,” Spy said, going back to his reading of the paper.

Heavy scoffed and rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t back down from his point, especially not with someone who he thought was intelligent enough to understand his reasoning.

“What is term? Cut losses.”

“Sniper isn’t a loss until Medic gives up,” Spy retorted. Heavy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Is sad what happened to Sniper, we must protect him, but we should not have to make burden for Doctor.”

“If you’re thinking that just because Medic can’t play house with you anymore that he should give up, then you are not the man I thought you were,” Spy tossed the newspaper onto the table and left.

Heavy didn’t react. He wasn’t completely wrong. He knew that it wasn’t all hopeless. But he also knew that if Medic pushed himself enough he’d be having a nervous breakdown which wouldn’t benefit anyone, least of all Sniper. His suggestion wasn’t to give up entirely, but to slow all research and try to find a replacement Sniper. Yes, he wanted his friend to see again, but he didn’t want his better half to fall apart trying to fix something that may never be fixed. He got up and went to hang around in the commons room again.

At noon, lunch was being served. Demoman was sober, and hungover, just getting up at about then, and was willing to go and deliver the food. Scout for some reason didn’t want to and had mostly played ball all day or hung around in his room reading comic books. For lunch, Engineer had cooked a pretty good dish, his first prolonged act of standing up. Texas style pulled pork, with a side of tatters. Not the most matching dish but a hearty one. One that he’d craved, for his first real meal after recovering. Demo thought it was best if he took it over. He wasn’t even allowed in his van, only Scout had gotten in, but he figured someone familiar, who had already seen him in such a state, would go a lot further with getting him to cooperate than someone else. So, he was on his way to try and help him.

First, he’d tried the door, which he instantly regretted. Why would he try the door when he could have knocked? For a second, he considered just leaving and getting someone else to deal with it as he knew he must have just triggered a ton of paranoia, but when he didn’t hear any shifting he sighed with relief. He knocked, sharply.

“Sniper? It’s Demo, ayve got some food for yeh. Engie made it,” he shouted.

No reply again, which made him wonder. He walked around to the other side and looked in through the window. He seemed to be sleeping still, or was maybe just ignoring him. He knocked on the window, and tried to see if he’d react. All he got was him going to cover his ears and make himself smaller.

“C’mon, mate. If you don’t eat it someone else will. I can’t hold off these scavengers for long,” he told him. Though, he knew that right now, no one would dare touch his food.

“Go away,” Sniper moaned, tiredly.

Demo sighed, and lowered the plate, looking at it.

“All right, mate. I’ll come by at dinner. See if you’re hungry then.”

“Don’t waste your time,” he spat back. Demo ignored him, walking back to the base and putting the plate in the fridge.

“Slim didn’t want it, huh? I’ll have to make his favourite for dinner. That’ll get him to eat,” Engie said, mostly to himself as he watched Demo put the food away.

“I sure hope so. What’s his favourite?”

“Huh...” Engie thought for a minute, having started to pack up the extras, was stopping his task to ponder.

“Minced meat and tatters,” Engineer said, finally.

Being a Scot, Demo got a little excited at the prospect of something like that. He loved mince and tatties. It made him think of home, and his mother. Not that he hadn’t had her on his mind.

“Sounds like a good meal, sure would have coaxed me out of bed,” he told him. With that being said, he shoved the food in the fridge and went to do the job himself so Engie could rest a little more.

“Here, let me clean up. You go sit.”

“Thanks, pardner,” he replied. He went and sat down, putting his feet up and just relaxing.

Out of all the people there, besides Medic, he’d been the only one to witness him trying to operate right after they’d found him. There were no words to describe how desperate he’d been in getting him a steady stream of healing fluid, and prying out bits and pieces of metal. There was no way to describe how frantic he’d been. How he’d panicked and moved with the air of someone who was not their medic, but a sad cry of a tired man trying his best to aid the casualty. There was no privacy in the base. Sniper and Spy were the only two who remained elusive, so if someone said one thing to someone, they may as well have said it to the entire team. There were some things, it seemed, that just weren’t spoken about, however. Despite how much Demo wanted to ask what had happened in the infirmary to begin with, however much Heavy wanted to say that all of this was useless, and how everyone was expecting some form of breakdown within their ranks, all kept their mouths closed. The silence was thick. Pyro came in, and Engineer smiled at him.

“Howdy, firestarter. What’ve you been up to?” he asked.

“Hrrrph hrmph,” Pyro replied, excitedly.

“That so? I reckon he’s off somewhere snooping around. Don’t think you’ll find him near the base. At least our base...” Engineer replied. Apparently, Pyro was looking for the Spy.

“Hhrrrmph,” came a tone of agreement.

“Why you want to talk to that snake anyways? Nothing good ever comes out of that man’s mouth.”

“He’s not that bad, mate,” Demo said.

“I suppose. Always trying to poke his nose in my workshop and see my blueprints, though. I don’t trust that man not to go off and sell the designs somewhere,” he sighed and took his feet off the opposite chair so Pyro could sit. “Too smart for his own good.”

“Spy is not smart man,” Heavy announced, suddenly.

Everyone looked over. Honest? No. Loyal in any capacity? No. But smart? Spy was smart, in his own way. He possessed book smarts, but his genius shone at conversation and manipulation to his benefit, and making out little plans of action for speedy escapes and such. Dramatic beyond all reason, but that was a desirable trait in a spy. Someone familiar with acting. For a second everyone stayed quiet, knowing they were on the verge of some sort of a revelation or fight. Engineer almost went up to leave. Pyro looked down.

“What makes you say that, mate?” Demo replied, hesitantly.

“Is just not smart man. Spy is spy. Spy is good spy. Everything else Spy is useless.”

Engineer reached for the paper that was on the table.

“Heh, well... be sure not to tell him that. He’ll find out some dirt on you and punish you for it,” Engie interjected to ease the tenseness.

A tense pause ensued, broken by a slightly annoyed voice.

“Are you seriously mad that he wants Medic to keep lookin’ for something to help Sniper with?” Demo said. No one knew what he was talking about besides Heavy.

“Oh? Could he not keep mouth shut? Not like Spy,” Heavy retorted, wondering why he’d mention it to Demo to begin with.

Engineer’s eyes shifted between the two, until he looked to Pyro and signalled for him to leave. He did so, and soon was gone. Engineer was about to do the same, slower, knowing they’d take more notice to him.

“He was in the right to tell,” his accent got thicker with anger. “I’m glad yeh don’t talk a lot because I don’t think I’d like ye nearly as much as I do if I had to hear that you didn’t want your friends to be normal again.”

“Friends to be normal? I say to Spy I want to find answer but that burden should not be entirely on Medic!” Heavy retorted. Engineer started to sneak away. “Engineer should be making solution too!”

Everyone turned to Engineer.

“Well, I’ll start working on something. But you know my specialty isn’t in medicine, Heavy,” he told him.

“Maybe, but you make gunslinger. You should know how to make eyes.”

Engineer pinched the bridge of his nose in an annoyed fashion. He didn’t want to make it out as if he also believed that Sniper was doomed to stay like this forever, but out of the medical courses he had taken, he did know that eyes were complex. Sure, nerves could be wired to machinery that would send impulses for a reaction. Something so close to the brain, like eyes, would be easy to connect, but the issue was with the complexity. He really didn’t want to say he thought it may be hopeless, but he was starting to fall on that side as well. Especially since the medical fluid hadn’t done the trick when pumped directly into him.

His father knew eyes. He had convinced one of his work mates to get fake eyes made by him that saw better. But Engineer had no idea where to even start. He’d figure it out in time, but how long would it be before the administrator kicked Sniper to the curb?

“It ain’t that simple. The gunslinger isn’t a regular hand, I can’t do as much with it. Even if I could repair his sight, it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Well, he can’t keep going on like this,” Demo sounded a little calmer. “It’s not healthy being holed up in his van in the stifling heat.”

“No... that is an issue,” Engineer left after saying that. He didn’t want to hear more arguments.

After Engineer, Heavy disembarked to the lab. He understood why everyone would be preoccupied with Sniper, he really did. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t feel for his friend. If Heavy suddenly couldn’t see, he didn’t know how he’d live either. He assumed Medic would take care of him, but that was not to say that his main purpose in life as he saw it, to protect, would be all but taken away. He wouldn’t have his reading in silence, and he wouldn’t be able to aimlessly watch Medic work. He figured if that had happened to him, the only thing stopping him from a complete and total rampage against his circumstance would have been his loyalty and fear of hurting someone he loved. He staggered around outside of the medical bay, kicking around the ideas of just keeping watch or going in. He decided he best try to get him to do something besides play with chemicals all day.

“Bitte, hören Sie auf. Das habe ich schon versucht, und es hat das Glas zum Schmelzen gebracht. Das musst du mir nicht immer wieder sagen!”

He walked in.

“Doktor?” he asked, quietly.

“Ich flehe Sie an, mich nicht anzuschreien! Das wird ihn nur vergiften.”

“Doktor?” he called out, now.

He seemed to be having a full on conversation with himself. Or with the birds. He didn’t know which and honestly didn’t really care to find out. He couldn’t really grasp what he was saying aside from a few words that jumbled together, but he seemed incredibly frustrated.

“Why am I even doing this? Why should I even care?” Medic continued in German.

“He’s your friend, and you are a genius, a god! Raised men from beyond the grave. Healed those who would kill your enemies. What a shame that the man-god couldn’t fix perfectly normal eyes. Maybe mix that one with that one!”

“I told you already, that it would only make a poison! Stop telling me to mix them!

“Oh, Doktor...” the voice chided at him.

“What?”

“Doktor, doktor, doktor,” it teased.

“What are you meaning by this? Why speak in English? You know they get uncomfortable when they hear me talk to you in anything other than German. Even then-,”

“DOKTOR!” Heavy yelled at him, snapping him out of the delusion.

“Ah! Heavy,” he chuckled. “How long have you been there?”

“Doktor comes with me now and gets sleep. Enough is enough... everyone is resting. You too,” he ordered.

“Heavy, I can’t. You know this.”

Heavy went up beside him to look closely at what he was doing, hoping to help. When he found random things written in German on scratch paper, and symbols of chemical compounds, however, his mind went blank. He could not make sense of it. Russian literature for sure, mathematics and chemistry were beyond him.

“Come, is not helping anyone you being here,” he tried to convince. “Maybe you try to find something to make Sniper... more happy with life instead,” he tried to suggest.

“Give up?” He brushed Heavy away and turned to look at him. “You think I can’t cure him, do you? That I am stupid?”

“Heavy did not say that,” he stood his ground. “All Heavy said was you needed rest.”

“Need rest? Ha, you believe I am incompetent,” he turned and starkly started to mix some things together again. Almost randomly.

“I would never say that, Faust,” he told him, leaning against the counter. “I believe you will fix him. I know you push yourself too much now.”

Medic laughed a little at his attempt to persuade him by using his name. It wasn’t like Heavy to go against the contract they all signed because the job was that important to him. They’d both be in trouble if the administrator was listening in and she knew they knew each other’s names. It was a show, a sign of how much he wanted him to listen.

“I have medicine to administer, get out of my way,” he told him, trying to sound as demeaning as possible.

“Doctor, he can wait. You will make mistake.”

He stood in his path, to his full height. Medic didn’t like that.

“Get out of my way, right now.”

Heavy leaned down a little.

“Put medicine away and go back to room.”

“Really? YOU’RE going to talk down to ME?” He narrowed his eyes. Exhaustion, and the feeling of anxiety left him in a corner. He saw two options. Submit or fight. And he was in a fighting mood. “Ha, good luck on the battlefield without a medigun on you, comrade. Weak without me,” he tried to push him away.

“Pah, weak?” Heavy laughed a little, seeing how his growing smile made Medic’s eye twitch. “You are the weak one, Doctor, not me. Everyone must protect Doctor because Doctor cannot defend himself.”

Medic laughed, maniacally.

“Mikhail, you go on about how you carry a big gun while I have the medigun strapped to my back the entire fight and do not speak a word! ‘Oh, medic! My arm hurts from carpels tunnel! Please massage for me! Doktor, doktor, doktor! Come with me!’ Oh mein gotz, just for once could you fight alone? No, you can’t because you’re too slow to chase after people and too reliant on close range. You are entirely useless without me, Heavy, now get out of my way,” he went to push past him.

Heavy grabbed him by the arm and slammed him into the wall, pinning him there. For a second, they stared at each other, in a desperate battle to see who would break the angered stare first. Then, as if either were hit by some electric spark that triggered a sudden change, they were both kissing deeply.

When all was done, Medic wasn’t nearly as mad as he had been. He smoked, quietly leaning against his chest and listening to his heartbeat. He was tired, and close to falling asleep. Had he not been smoking, he would have already been gone from consciousness a long time ago.

“Heavy, you need to stop trying to tell me what to do. I’m not your sisters. I have lived through a lot... I don’t need you to look out for me,” he told him, quietly. “I’m not going to be taken to a gulag if you’re not by my side. And even if I was, I’ve been a prisoner of war before. Everyone has on the team whenever BLU gets lucky. I’m certain nothing would compare to that.”

“I can’t stop worrying about you. Sisters are strong. Mother is stronger than Heavy. But you? You are right by my side, all the time. If you were gone, or hurt because I wasn’t there,” his voice trailed off and he pulled him closer.

Medic took a last drag from the cigarette before putting it out in the ash tray on the table. He then leaned in and wrapped his arms around him.

“Ja? What would happen? Mikhail, I could be killed tomorrow. I could have a brain aneurism and die right now in your arms. I can’t always stand behind you to heal you while you take bullets for me. I can’t always be at your side. Sometimes, I need to be left to work so that we don’t all die. I understand that I seem a little... insane. But I have everything under control. It’s just my method.”

Heavy didn’t reply as he reached and ran his fingers gently through his hair, before pulling him in to kiss him again. He let him, and wrapped his arms around his neck as they laid down to cuddle more.

“I must protect you. I fail to protect team. Now Sniper is blind and we are one less strong. He is not vital. You are.”

“You can’t possibly blame yourself. It’s on me for not trying to get to him sooner. It’s on the man who did this to him. Not you, never you.” They laid down together and Medic closed his eyes as he leaned into him. “And I’m sure that I’ll find a cure... then it won’t be necessary to blame anyone.”

Heavy only held him, one arm protectively around his back, holding the back of his head, and the other underneath his neck. Medic had his against his chest and around his waist. It didn’t take long for him the fall asleep after that, and while he rested, Heavy traced the bones of his spine.

A knock came at night. There was no way to tell the time, however. Sniper sat up in bed. He was so thirsty. He needed water.

“Hellllo, Sniper,” came a familiar and very welcome voice.

He practically fell out of bed and stumbled to the door. He slammed it open, and tried to feel for him.

“Medic! You’ve got a cure!”

“I think so, my good friend,” he grabbed his hand to show where he was and let him touch his shoulder. “Come, sit. I will have to inject it, but as long as you don’t move it will be fine.”

Sniper had no issue with that as he guided him and made him sit on the bed. He put a hand on his chin to make him look up and held his face in his hands, almost too strongly. The muscle he needed to get the serum into was very specific. He slowly traced under his eye, until he felt it, and started to push it in. The slight twitch told him it was in the right place. The needle pulled out, and he pulled away.

“Now, it’s not instantaneous, this could take up to ten minutes,” Medic assured.

“All right, doc!” He sounded ecstatic.

“May I have a seat?”

“Yeah, sure, ‘course.”

Medic sat down and sighed.

“Ever since you got blinded Heavy has been very controlling. I’m not liking this side of him, I must say.”

“That so?” Sniper was counting down the minutes as Medic spoke.

“Constantly trying to dictate what I should be doing and how I should be doing it. We got into a little fight. I’m not quite ready to forgive him yet.”

“A fight? You two?” Unheard of.

“Yes. Very upsetting. I truly did not like it.”

“Never seen it before?”

“No. Not like this.”

“Well... what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t want to leave him. We talked, but if that happens again I don’t think it will end well.”

“Well, some things aren’t meant to last.”

“I know,” he sighed, deeply. “But I think this is.”

“Ah...” Sniper leaned back.

Two minutes down. His heart raced. The conversation meant nothing to him as he replied with average answers.

Medic looked at his watch, and then at Sniper. The way he smiled, and seemed so filled with joy. Medic couldn’t help but feel good about this. Only a few more minutes to go and maybe this would work, and all would be fixed. Out of all the tests he’d ran, this one passed the most trials.

Another two minutes passed.

Sniper was still optimistic, but his posture started to slump. Medic quickly needed to find something to distract the time with. Nothing was worse than spending time waiting for results.

“Your parents called the base,” he told him. “Engineer picked up. Said he couldn’t say why you wouldn’t call but that you were alive. That was about it. Apparently your mother was quite worried.”

“Oh... my parents,” he tried to remember how long it had been. “When was Sunday the sixteenth? How many days ago?”

“Sunday? Hmm, six days.”

“I call them every other day. They probably thought I’d died. They’re not fond of me working here.”

“You’ve said.”

“Mum’s always worried and dad’s always mad... his way of worrying.”

“Ah... parents always worry when their children go off to war. If not, then they are not your parents.”

He tried to remember the last time he’d seen his mother, but her face faded in his memory. There was no way to console Sniper when it came to that, or offer guidance. When he’d gone to war, after all, his parents had already died.

“It’s not working, doc,” he told him, hoping to hear that he had to wait longer.

“There’s still two minutes left for it to take effect, just have a touch more patience,” he tried to tell him.

“...Yeah, all right, Doctor,” he sounded so quiet now.

By the eighth minute he could tell Sniper had lost all hope. He got up, and went to go put a hand on his shoulder. By now, if it would have worked, he should have been seeing things blurry. He should have been jumping for joy.

The two minutes passed and nothing happened. He watched as Sniper leaned against the wall, his shoulders slumped and his head tilted downwards. Medic put a hand on his back, to say he was there.

“I’m sorry,” he finally admitted. “I really thought this one was it. I’m so sorry.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes in frustration.

Sniper didn’t reply for a second.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find a cure?” he asked. His voice was weak. For a while, Medic didn’t reply. As his physician, he didn’t think so. As his friend he had to believe he could.

“I don’t know, Sniper.”

“Ah... all right, doc. Thanks.”

“Do you want to come back to the base? They’re watching some program. We’ve got audio description on some channels.”

“No,” he said, flatly. “Thanks anyways, mate.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” he started to get up, uncertain if he should stay or not.

“No, thanks doc. I just want to be alone.”

“Well... I’ll come get you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

He left him alone after that, marching pitifully back to the base. Inside, he almost fell to his knees. He often didn’t experience empathy. When his friends were hurt, though, when they were so blatantly in a wreck of emotion? He could understand being at a low.

Heavy stood at the door, waiting for him. He shook his head no as an answer.

Inside of his van, Sniper got up and paced around for a second. It was cold out, the desert keeping no humidity in. His panic was devolving into hysteria. He tried to think. What was he going to do? How would he live? No fun to be had, at least from his perspective, no work. He could smell his own fear. He reached for the counter to find a gun, and rummaged through the cabinet, feeling for one. He tried it out, to see how it would feel. The cold metal pressed to his temple as he awkwardly held his SMG. He couldn’t do it, though. He dropped it on the ground, carelessly. That was something he’d never do, though with the SMG it was secondary to his usuals. Then he paced, and thought that maybe he should do it in the shower so cleanup was easy, and the only thing that would have to be gotten rid of was his knife. Again, reaching for the cabinet, he felt for his machete, only to drop it on the ground as well. He didn’t want to bleed to death.

He sat on his bed again, his leg bouncing with the fear. He grabbed his pills, and went to the sink, kicking the gun and machete as he stumbled. He put a handful of the pills into his mouth, and then leaned over the sink and swallowed them down with water. He then did it again, dropping the pills all over the counter as he turned off the tap feeling satisfied. A bit more relaxed. He went over to the bed again, and laid down. He’d be found by morning so he didn’t think he’d need to do it in the bathroom. He layed back in bed. For a second, he thought that this may have been a mistake, survival instincts firing and telling him to force himself to throw up. Maybe Medic would come back and he’d shoot him up with something and everything would be fine. But then he thought again. That was ridiculous. He hadn’t found a miracle cure yet, despite his genius.

And Sniper was not a patient man, despite his profession.

He swallowed, a lump in his throat growing. He wished he could have written a goodbye but he didn’t think it would have been legible. And asking Scout for the video tape recorder would have looked too suspicious.

Scout came by an hour and a half after Medic had stumbled back to the base, irritated and mumbling to himself in German. He figured that it hadn’t worked. He knocked on the door, wondering if Sniper would even reply.

“Hey, Sniper. I’ve got a blunt and some dinner. I mean... you haven’t eaten in forever. All your plates that are saved are kind of taking a lot of room in the fridge. Engie made it. He said it’s your favourite, but I don’t even know what it is. It’s like mashed potatoes and some ground beef. Looks pretty gross to me but I guess you don’t really need to care about that, do you?” He laughed nervously, thinking that was a little insensitive but not caring. “I’ve brought my Walkman, too. There’s a game going on, and it’s got a radio in it. We could listen.”

When no reply came he started to walk away, but figured he’d try one more time to knock on the door. When he did, he did it with a touch more force this time, and it came slightly ajar.

“Oh, god... I’m sorry, here, uhh,” he said, panicking a little at the fact that it came open. “You didn’t lock your door? Medic must have left and you probably forgot, I guess. Oh, what’dya do to your gun?”

He let himself in, seeing the mess on the ground.

“You want help cleaning this up?” He put the plate on the table and looked at the shiv and the SMG. Picking them up, he looked into the cabinet to see where they went and put them in. “Ha, your Machina looks very clean. Did you spend the entire day polishing it or somethin’? I get you’re blind but come on, you’ve got to have some things to do besides stay in here and clean your gun and sleep all day.”

He went over to the side of the bed to see if he was listening and just not acknowledging, or if he was pretending to be asleep.

“Come on, man,” he tried to convince. “Eat something... your face is all grey looking, like super pale. It’s not...” there was zero acknowledgment. Not even a twitch of the eye.

He went closer and shook him a little. Now that he was here, he figured it would be good to force him to eat and hang out a bit.

“Get up, man. I don’t want to have to listen to you chew through the entire game, and I spent the last of my money from my ma on this blunt. I can’t smoke it all by myself.”

When he didn’t react again, he wondered what was wrong. He reached for his arm to see if he’d cut his wrists, but finding no blood, he didn’t know what was happening. He got up again, and looked around, the water dripping in the sink still. He picked up one of the pills and looked at it, so small and so harmless looking. He’d seen his brother overdose, and it had been violent. Throwing up in the bathroom, and coming out of unconsciousness angry. He went over to his friend again, and shook him a little, sitting down beside him and wondering what he should do. He was still alive, breathing slowly, as he could see through his chest moving up and down. He looked up at the door, then back down, before sitting against the bed and drawing his knees up to his chest. When he’d been younger his brother had threatened to kill him if he told his mother. He looked back up at Sniper. If he lived, he didn’t want him to be mad at him. If he didn’t, he’d of lost a friend because he couldn’t go to Medic. But this was what Sniper had wanted, was it really his place to stop him if he didn’t think he could go on? Scout knew if he went, Sniper would never like him again. That he’d hate him for coming in and tattling.

Or maybe it was a mistake and he’d wanted to sleep.

That’s what happened with his brother; it had been a mistake.

That’s why he wasn’t allowed to tell his mother.

That was what he had said.

Maybe he could deal with this like he had his brother.

He stood up again, to see if he could wake him up. He grabbed him by his shirt, and made him sit up, slapping his face a little.

“Sniper, come on,” he said. But he didn’t sound like himself, neither cocky nor arrogant. He sounded scared. He hit him a little harder. “Please.”

For a brief second he had opened his eyes, hazily looked around the room seeing nothing, before closing them again and slumping over slightly. During that time Scout was pretty pleased, but when he eventually leaned over, limp, his heart sank. He let him lay on his side again, and stood up, pacing for a second. He went over to him, and got down to be level with his face.

“Sniper? Sniper, please don’t be mad at me,” he pleaded.

He got up again, and went to the door, looking behind him once more to see if he’d turn over or move at all, but found him still, arms awkwardly positioned from his lack of control. He turned to the door and walked out, not running for his uncertainty. The base was quiet, minus Medic screaming at Heavy about something in the kitchen. He didn’t know what to do, sweat dripping down the side of his face.

“Leave me alone,” Medic said, as Scout took a seat at the table.

“Medic is going to spend night in lab again? Medic is not allowed back in room-house. He will have to sleep in lab when he eventually gets tired,” Heavy threatened.

“So you’re going to kick me out of the bed? Make me sleep on the couch? Have it your way, you selfish, insolent control freak!”

“Medic not right in head,” Heavy yelled back at him.

“Ja, so you’ve all said. At least me and Pyro don’t try to hide our insanity. You can act as righteous and as morally high as you want, but you’re just as bad as me, if not worse! Constantly paranoid! Needing to force everyone to do things a certain way! Taking joy in slaughtering people! If I knew it wouldn’t result in a complete fight where you’d try to lecture me into thinking I’m so insane that I can’t do my job, then I’d of told you a long time ago that you have a personality disorder and post traumatic stress disorder, but no! ‘Medic is not going to do job, Medic must rest before Medic has episode,’ like I’m a damn child, Heavy!”

Heavy waved him away as he got into his face and walked away. He didn’t know how long he’d of been able to not stop himself from having a real fight where they threw things at each other and he didn’t want to do it in front of Scout. Or the others that were in the room right next to them. He came back up close to him and grabbed him by his collar for a second, not thinking, before he saw the look of resignation in Medic’s eyes. He stared him down for a second before letting him go, and walking away. He glared at Scout. Little bastard couldn’t even keep his spying hidden, just blatantly came in.

When he left, Medic leaned over the sink, gripping the counter with white knuckles. Scout looked at him, and then at the ground, then at him again.

“Doc...?”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT, SCOUT?” he yelled at him.

“...I think... ummm. Sniper isn’t waking up,” he said.

For a second, Medic stood there, chest heaving in anger.

“So let him sleep, he’s pretending so you don’t bother him. I honestly didn’t think you were so stupid, that you wouldn’t assume that.”

Scout stayed quiet for a second, not meeting his eyes. He pushed his shoes against the leg of the table uncomfortably.

“I don’t think he’s pretending, doc...” his voice was filled with finality.

Medic looked at the ground for a second, before he contrived to think that it was very possible that Sniper would attempt his life. He stood still, not yet worried, before he started to walk out. He expected he would have done it sooner if there was a danger of it. He should have been paying more attention, and he started to worry. He should have made him stay in the base, he should have made Demo stay with him, he should have just kept him in the infirmary. He started to blame Heavy. If he hadn’t been so adamant about keeping him out of his lab, so that he wouldn’t skip meals and not sleep, he’d have found a cure already. Though, he knew that this blame was entirely just his anger. He knew he’d been awful to Heavy as well, instigating fights when all he was trying to do was care for him. This was all his own fault.

Scout followed him out to the van, unsure of if he was going there or not. He’d wanted to make sure he was. When he found Medic climbing up the steps, he was uncertain if he should stay or go. He followed him in and waited near the door as Medic went to the bed. He went on his knees so that he was level, and looked for a pulse for a second, finding it. It was weak. His chest barely moved now, Scout could see.

“When did you find him?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. Maybe.”

Medic went to get him into a different position, putting him on his back and propping his head up a little.

“I don’t know if it’s too late or not to pump his stomach,” he told him. “I don’t know if he’s going to go into a coma from this. I need to get him back to the infirmary.”

Scout didn’t know what to say as Medic put one of Sniper’s arms over his stomach so that it wouldn’t be as awkward to carry him, and pulled him up by his collar. He watched as he put his arm under his knees and behind his back, picking him up with proclaimed ease and a bit of strain.

He quietly followed him back to the base, uncertain if it was an intrusion. Scout watched as he went in, and walked to the infirmary as fast as he could. The conversation that was being had in the recroom stopped as the few that were on there watched him get taken away. Scout stopped following then, and just watched as they went.

“What’s wrong with Sniper?” Soldier asked, stupidly.

Scout turned to him, but didn’t answer. Spy got up, from where he’d been sitting and smoking, and enjoying the formerly lighthearted and interesting gossip about Heavy and Medic. He knew exactly what had happened. So did Engineer. But the rest remained uncertain in the room. Spy put his hands on his shoulders, and just stood behind him, not offering a word of condolence or praise for his actions, but only a hand to comfort his fear. For how much he hated Spy most of the time, Scout wanted to cry against him as if he were his mother. The prospect of losing Sniper didn’t really hit him until just then. Not the real extent of it.

“He’s going to be okay, Scout. Even if he wouldn’t have been, Medic will put him under the uber charge until his body works itself out of it,” he finally broke the silence in a hushed tone only Scout could hear.

Engineer looked to Pyro, who was confused, and then to Soldier, who was completely lost but stayed silent seeing that something outside of his understanding was taking place. He was curious. Engineer swallowed not wanting to explain it. Demo was catching on as he stood up to go and get another drink, seeing as there was nothing he could do.

“We can wait outside the infirmary, if you want,” he offered. “If it would make you feel better.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy replied. “It would.”

“All right. Come, then.”

The two left, and Soldier looked to Engineer for an explanation. Seeing as it was just the two who didn’t understand now, Engineer thought it would be okay to say those words out loud.

“Sniper must have been hurting a lot more than we thought...” he started, trying to put it into a euphemism and failing to get the point across. “I think he tried to kill himself.”

“Why?” Soldier asked.

“Well. Some people don’t think losing something to battle is as good as you do, son.”

He didn’t speak more after that. Soldier felt wildly out of place. He knew he wasn’t that smart, and that he didn’t understand a lot of the world. Why someone would kill themselves after being able to prove they’d fought for America was beyond him. For all his stupidity when it came to things like reading people, and being able to get situations, he did understand that this wasn’t right. He didn’t say anything else because he knew it would just make it worse if he kept questioning what was going up. He sat quietly, and looked at his feet, as one does when a fellow soldier has fallen.

Pyro mumbled something to Engineer.

“I think he’ll pull through. Like Spy said, the doc will just put him on the uber charge if he’s doing bad.”

“When is he going to recover enough to sit with us again?”

It was always rare when Sniper came to sit with them and relax in front of the television or play cards, or even eat meals with them. When he did it was a treat. He didn’t speak much for how brutally shy he was. His absence was always noticed, though. Engineer didn’t really want to say what he thought.

“Well... I don’t think he will come back, Soldier,” he told him, quietly.

“Why wouldn’t he come back?”

“That’s enough questions,” Engineer snapped at him. Soldier looked down again. Why wouldn’t Sniper come back if he was sad enough to kill himself, he didn’t know. He couldn’t really put the fact that he was going to be under constant watch into consideration. “I’m mighty tired of this conversation. I’m going to bed. Wake me up if something’s wrong.” He left after that and it was only Pyro and Soldier now.

“Why wouldn’t he come back, Pyro?” Soldier asked.

Pyro made a noise that kind of sounded like, ‘I don’t know.’

Demo came back with some drinks and gave one to Soldier, sitting down and easing into an arm chair.

“He’ll come back,” Demo assured. “Whether he wants to or not.”

Sniper woke up with his hands cuffed to the bed. Medic was standing next to him, hydrating him through an IV. He looked over to the sound of the chains moving.

“I don’t like having to pump my friend’s stomachs, Sniper.”

“Then you shouldn’t have done it,” he snapped back at him.

Medic didn’t reply.

“Scout found you. He’s been waiting outside for you to wake up. So has Spy, but he wasn’t here for you.”

“Glad he’s finally stepping up and being a good dad even if he’s too much of a coward to admit it.”

“I’m not going to force you to take antipsychotics...” Medic stated. He wouldn’t have done that to anyone after what he’d gone through with that. Despite how long ago it was, he still recalled being forced to down bottles of one thing or another when he was still living at home because his parents thought it would make him behave normally. “But you’re not going to be allowed to be alone like you want.”

Sniper scowled, and Medic looked over him as he looked in the opposite direction.

“I want to be alone.”

“You should have thought about that before trying to kill yourself. You don’t get that privilege anymore,” he almost sounded angry with him.

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

“Because I’m your friend. Even if you don’t think so now.”

“You’re selfish is what you are.”

“I’m selfish? Sniper,” he came in close to emphasize how serious he was. “You’re the one who tried to die and leave everyone here. You’ve traumatized Scout and you’ve made yourself incredibly difficult to help. You’re lucky to have people that care about you, people that are trying to help you, and all you can do is make them feel awful for even being around you. You punish them for wanting to be your friend.”

Sniper didn’t reply. He did not care.

“And then when you’re too afraid to admit you’ve done wrong, you go quiet.” He didn’t respond again, and Medic got up and went to work cleaning up. “I need to go tell Scout you’re alive. I’m not going to force you to see him because you’ll just make him think he’s done wrong by saving you. But eventually you should swallow your pride and be thankful. And you shouldn’t make him feel worthless for trying to help you.”

“Fuck off,” Sniper said, not wanting to hear a lecture. Medic was shocked. He’d never pushed Sniper to the point where he actually insulted him back.

He didn’t need to see more. He left the infirmary knowing Sniper could do nothing to himself.

Scout looked up at the doctor, Spy as well.

“He’s fine,” he told him, merrily.

“Can I see him?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh. When can I?”

“Not for a bit.”

“Oh.”

“Go to bed, Scout. It’s not good for you to sleep upright,” the doctor told him, eyeing Spy knowing the man never slept laying down for fear of getting too comfortable and not waking up to the faintest of noise.

“The doctors right,” Spy told him. “Now that you know he’s fine you should rest easy.”

“Yeah... I guess.”

Scout left, and the Spy regarded the doctor.

“When are you going to get him out of the infirmary?”

“I could right now but I want to wait a few hours.”

“You’re going to put him under a suicide watch?”

“Yes. I’m going to have to until we figure something out. If he dies then the team will have to find a new sniper. And I don’t want another one.”

“How selfless an act. Who’s going to take the first watch?”

“I’m going to make Heavy do it. He wants someone to protect so badly then he can take the full-time job. I don’t want to.”

“Seems like a good plan. What happens when we all go to battle?”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know. I assume all battles will be suspended until the cigarette woman finds a replacement or a cure. Then Sniper won’t be my responsibility anymore, and it will be out of my hands.”

“I’ll see what I can do about arrangements then. Make sure he gets to the right place before Mann Co. cheaps out and shoots him in the middle of the desert.”

“Good thinking,” was all he said as he went back to his room. From inside, Spy could hear Sniper trying to free himself, chain against the metal of the bed.

He too left to let Sniper work it out by himself, knowing he’d just make matters worse if he tried to stop him.

When Heavy came for him, he felt very awkward in the room. Knowing both people resented him for just wanting to take care of them, he considered this was a form of punishment made by Medic (which it entirely was). The difference between them was that Sniper could openly hate him as much as he wanted without having any form of remorse or having to go and lay in the same bed as him at night. Medic was very cruel sometimes in his psychological punishments. Saying things that he wanted to say without ever having to speak a word or face him head on and devolve into a fight. Heavy stayed quiet.

“I have good news for you, Sniper, I’m not going to keep you chained to the bed anymore.”

Sniper looked in his direction hopefully. He didn’t know Heavy was even there. Medic undid the cuffs, not mentioning how bruised his arms were with the struggle.

“You can go. So long as Spy’s there. Or Heavy. Or Demo. Or Engineer. Whatever, so long as its someone competent.”

“I don’t need to be watched.”

“I beg to differ. And if you don’t listen to me I’m going to force you to stay.”

Having wanted that before, Sniper did not want it now. He could still feel Medic looming over him, and rage filled him that he was ordering this. He reached to take a swing at him, knowing at least one fist would make contact but found himself being restrained again. Hands far too rough to be anyone’s but Heavy’s.

“Can’t fight a blind man without your guard dog, Medic?” he yelled at him, wanting to strangle him.

“Sniper, is enough. Just listen... and faster you can be alone,” Heavy bribed.

It was true. If he trusted him enough he would have let him be alone again, even in his van with his things. But it didn’t convince him.

“LET GO OF ME, NOW!” he yelled at him, as Medic nonchalantly went to writing on some papers, and going about tests, still in the mood to help his friend even if he was being such an awful person to be around.

“Sniper will calm down and Heavy will let go,” he told him, holding his arms as if they were feathers. Every time he tried to pull his weight against him, Heavy didn’t even move. Like metal. He stopped struggling for a second, and Heavy let go. There was an awkward moment where he just sat in bed, panting from what it had been taken to fight.

Heavy just stared at him, sadly. Sniper was always so stoic and calm before. It felt like something had been taken away from him on a nonphysical level. Like he was a different person inside of his head. Heavy put a hand on his arm, and Sniper got what he meant by it, and started to move to get out of bed. Heavy didn’t let go, and he guided him from the infirmary.

“Since Sniper has slept for very long time, Heavy does not think it would be good for Sniper to go to sleep again. Doctor said I must make you eat something, if only a little. I will make whatever. What do you want?”

He was met with no reply and him looking in the opposite direction.

“If you do not eat, Doktor will chain you to bed and give feeding tube,” Heavy threatened. This caught his attention a little bit. He turned to face him in his general direction, eyes unfocused and scarred from the shrapnel. It seemed a lot of the Doctor’s medicine just didn’t work on Sniper for some reason. The scar on his face from Spy was still prominent even after he’d been healed many, many times. “I won’t even make you eat whole meal.”

They walked to the kitchen and Heavy sat him down at the table, keeping an eye on him. He didn’t know what Sniper wanted, so he started to make a stew that would be ready quickly. There was a lot of hatred between Sniper to Heavy. He resented him and wanted him to leave him alone. Luckily Soldier came in to take that burden.

“Hello, men!” he said cheerfully.

Heavy looked over and gave him a nod as a reply.

“What are you making?”

“Is stew, will be enough for you.”

“Oh, I love stew. A true American dish!”

Soldier got himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, staring at Sniper who had his head tilted downwards.

“Good morning, Sniper.”

“Good day,” Sniper said back, in the tone he used to mock people on the battlefield.

“Your face looks different.”

Sniper didn’t reply after that. He just blankly stared at the table, not being able to do anything to stop people from talking to him.

“Sniper shaved is why,” Heavy told him.

“Ohh,” Soldier stared at him to get a closer look.

“Mr. Bites had gotten shaved once by Scout as a prank. He looked different too.”

“Who’s that?” Sniper asked, not really wanting to know.

“My cadet!”

“Oh.” Sniper felt bad for whoever decided to be a cadet of soldier’s.

“Da, cadet raccoon.”

“Just because he’s a raccoon does not mean he’s not a true American! The US army accepts everyone as long as they’re American!” Soldier screamed at him, passionately.

Sniper covered his ears, annoyed at the sound, and instantly Soldier lowered his voice after getting glared at.

“Oh... I’m sorry,” he said, reflectively. Sniper didn’t unplug his ears and tried to close himself off as much as possible, looking down at the ground. Soldier knew he’d made a mistake and didn’t really understand what it was. Well, he didn’t really make a mistake. Sniper just wanted to keep everyone away as much as possible.

“It is okay, Soldier,” Heavy said, not wanting him to feel bad for not knowing what to do. He didn’t know what to do either.

“I’ll go now.”

Soldier left, after giving Sniper a pat on the back, and leaving to his room in the basement. Sniper unplugged his ears and continued staring at the floor.

“Here, eat,” Heavy told him, putting the bowl in front of him with a spoon. He sat down across from him and enjoyed himself a cup of coffee as well, watching to make sure he ate.

Sniper sat there for a second, his body not hungry at all. He felt sick, and the smell of food made his heart race with panic for some reason. Why was it that when he was stressed all things edible made him gag, he didn’t know. But it had been that way forever, and he wasn’t shocked to find himself wishing he were laying on the bathroom floor with nausea instead of forcing himself to eat the good tasting stew. He took a bite and almost gagged, trying to swallow. Heavy watched him, unsure of why he was so upset to eat the food. He’d tasted the stew. It was good to him. Sniper was never picky. Having not eaten in days he wondered why it was such a struggle for him. His thin hands having to grip the spoon as he shook to get it to his mouth, and waiting minutes in between bites.

He only got about halfway through before he couldn’t bring himself to do it anymore. He dropped the spoon back in the bowl and put his head in his hands and his elbows on the table to prop himself up and he hunched over. His leg bounced with the stress. Heavy didn’t know what to do. He got up, and took the half eaten bowl away, putting it back.

“Is enough, Sniper. I let you sleep now, da?”

Sniper looked up hopefully. Heavy went over and helped him stand to guide him to his new room. It was the old one he’d never used. Heavy thought staying in the base was better. The van was too small to accommodate him. He’d made the bed in Sniper’s real room, having been ordered to by Medic, and had tried to make it as comfortable as possible without too much intrusion. Before, everything was barren with just the stock sheets. Very cheap and thin. Now it had some nicer blankets on it and pillows to make sure his lankiness was accommodated.

“Heavy thinks Sniper should stay in base. In own room. Less trouble if stay here, no?”

Sniper didn’t care. He was too tired. Nothing mattered anyways because he couldn’t see. A bed was a bed.

“There, you go up the stairs now, Sniper,” he told him, holding his arms from the side, and guiding him forwards. “Is Sniper wanting to get clothes for bed?”

Sniper also didn’t care about that. He’d been sleeping in his clothes for the past few days and paying it no mind, so he shook his head. Heavy continued helping him up the stairs until they got to the top. Sniper tripped having not been told that was all the steps there were, but Heavy held him up by his collar and arm.

“Heavy is sorry,” he told him. “I did not think.”

Sniper clung onto him. He felt horrible, seeing how shaken he looked. How frightened of something so mundane. He wanted to go wake Demo out of his drunken stupor but knew he couldn’t leave Sniper alone. He pulled him up and they continued to walk, bone thin hands clutching the collar of his friend’s shirt. When he got into the room, Heavy guided his hand to the side of his bed and let him go, keeping a hand on his shoulder in case he still wanted support. He laid down, after taking off his shoes and undoing a few buttons of his shirt. Besides that, he didn’t seem to care too much. He just closed his eyes and leaned into the bed. Not pulling the covers up beside him, or drinking any water from the pitcher, or talking more. Heavy watched, and then sat down, quietly.

“Sniper can still live good life,” Heavy said. “Very fulfilling life with friends. Or be alone. Or be in home with others like him.”

“You’re going to put me in an institute?” Sniper asked, fearful that he’d have to live like that.

“No, was only suggestion.”

There was a long pause.

“I can’t do anything I like, Heavy. I can’t do the one thing that made me important. I can’t... I can’t do anything anymore,” at Heavy’s silence to his mourning, Sniper felt very awkward. There was not anything to say else. “I should have died with the rocket.”

Heavy had little to say, because in his inexperience, he had to agree. What was there for a man like Sniper to do? He did not admit defeat.

“Many people are blind, Sniper.”

“Many of those people don’t have only one skill. I’m good at shooting things. That’s it. I’m not strong, I’m not smart, not fast... I can’t do anything besides this job. I left home because I wasn’t strong enough to push a bunch of sheep into a pen everyday.”

Heavy stayed silent for a bit. He really did just feel horrible for him. Which was the opposite of what Sniper wanted.

“Heavy thinks Sniper is smart man. I do not know why Sniper would think otherwise.”

Sniper frowned. Almost embarrassingly, he hardly knew how to read being raised in the bush in the middle of nowhere. School was always a struggle to get to, and on the occasions he did go, he never learnt. Even now he had a hard time figuring out words. That was incredibly embarrassing. He was not book smart. He definitely wasn’t people smart. Guns, again, were his only solace. He curled in on himself.

“I’m going to go to sleep, now, Heavy. Sorry I can’t be better conversation,” he mumbled, and clenched his eyes shut. Heavy took out a book to read and was glad he could keep the lights on.

“Would you not be happier watching show? Or talking with Scout?”

“No.”

He slept after that.

Hours later, when Heavy had turned in for the night and Sniper was left with Demo to watch over him instead, he opened his eyes again. Demo had actually woken him up. He had something he wanted to give him.

“Hey, mate! Wake up,” he said, after Heavy had left. “I’ve got yeh something.”

Sniper half opened his eyes, lazily.

“What? Demo?”

“Yeah, mate! Heavy was too tired.”

“Oh...” he went to go sleep again, closing his eyes and wishing for silence.

Demo took one of his arms, which he kept limp, and took his hand, shoving something into it. Something metallic, with smooth parts.

“There yeh go,” he told him. “Aviators. Just like your old ones. They’d broken.”

“Glasses?” he half sat up, a little interested.

“Oh, you know. Keeps people from looking where they shouldn’t be.”

“Was I that cut up?”

“Well... it’s obvious something is wrong with your eyes. They’re scarred. Gone white.”

“...Oh. No one ever told me.”

“Well, that won’t be an issue now, will it?”

Sniper half nodded, sinking back into the headboard.

“Eyve got something else as well,” this sounded like he was grinning as he spoke. He put something in his hands. It was squishy, and small.

“You’re going to have to fill me in, Demo,” he told him, irritably.

“Mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Shrooms.”

There was a second where he didn’t quite get it. Then it clicked, and he ate it instantly.

“I’ve got some for me as well, move over so I can sit next to yeh.”

Sniper complied and the both of them leaned against the headboard and started to wait. Sniper was hoping he’d see something, even if it was just a hallucination.

“How long does it take to work?”

“You’ll start feeling good in about twenty minutes. Then another forty and you’ll hallucinate.”

“Ahh, ahright,” Sniper laid back and closed his eyes, thinking he’d try to sleep until he started to feel it and then wait.

Demo did the same except he drank as he did so, the room filling with the smell of the liquor. When the effects started to happen, Sniper felt really, really good all of the sudden. He sat up again, and was watching around for something to come into his field of vision. Something did. Colours the likes of which he’d never seen. He grabbed at Demo, and pointed for him to look. Demo saw something completely different but agreed that something was there, and shared in his excitement. Sniper stared at it, which in reality was a blank wall but to him was his world. He wanted to touch it, to feel it, to know it was real. Then it hit him mid trip that it wasn’t, even if he could do all those things. He laid back down in bed, continuing to stare from afar but severely less interested.

“Look, man,” Demo said, shaking him a little. “You hear that?”

Sniper didn’t acknowledge. He tried to reach for the hallucination, to grip at its pale colours, only to have it fly away from him in a dazzlingly awful show of its falseness. But he looked down to find his hand, though distorted. Covered in black and having it rapidly move up around him. Straggling him, making his vision slowly fade. As if it never was his but the substance’s. He wished he could have picked up a gun and put it to his eye, to shoot the colours he saw. But he couldn’t. His weapons so far away, and his body like lead. He laid down fully, and closed his eyes, still seeing things that weren’t really there and enjoying it. Mostly colours and shapes. Sometimes he felt stuff too. But he wasn’t sure if that was just Demo getting up or him hallucinating. It didn’t matter.

He woke up hours later, to Engie coming in. Sweat made his shirt stick to his body as he sat up in bed to the sounds.

“What in tarnation? Demo, you drunk, get up!” he yelled, grabbing him out of bed.

“Whaaa-,?” Demo questioned.

“You were supposed to be watching him, not getting high with him and passin’ out.”

“Come on, mate. He’s not going to do anything, he doesn’t even know what room he’s in. You’ve got him locked in here like an animal, might as well let him have some fun.”

Engineer sighed, angrily thinking he had a point. Sniper awkwardly drew his knees up to his chest and looked in the opposite direction of where the sound came from. He felt so embarrassed. Engineer silenced himself for a second before turning back to Demo.

“I’ve got watch. You can go,” he told Demo.

“No, mate, I’m fine teh stay here. You can go.” He really tried to convince him he was not going to pass out, even after being caught. Sniper didn’t speak but he wished for Demo to stay instead.

“Not after the stunt you pulled, get out.”

“He didn’t pull any stunt, Engie, I haven’t felt this good since I went blind,” Sniper tried to defend. He didn’t realize how hoarse he sounded until the words came out.

“I’m sorry, son, but I just can’t trust you,” Engie told him. “Go on, Demo.”

Sniper felt the pressure on the other side of the bed leave, and he looked away more. Not pouting, but definitely angry.

“And you,” Engie said, after Demo left. “You need to take a shower. You look awful and you reek, boy.”

He appreciated the honesty but didn’t care.

“I’m not having a shower if you’re going to watch me the entire time.”

“I ain’t going to watch you in the shower.”

“After you kicked out Demo you expect me to listen to you? I’m not a child so you’re all going to have to stop treating me like one.”

“No, you’re not a child, you’re a man who just had his life ruined. You still need to have some semblance of your old ways, Sniper. You can’t go around looking like you’ve went on a five day bender, especially if you want to not be treated like a child again.” Engie went over and grabbed him by the arm to pull him up. Sniper didn’t even feel like a person to him. Cold and boney, sweat making the skin feel abnormal. “Come on now, this is ridiculous. You’re always on about being a professional. Get up and act like one.”

Sniper fell to his knees as Engie persisted. For a second he wondered if he’d made him fall on mistake, but as he leaned over to apologize he could see he wasn’t getting up. He didn’t feel right doing this, but as he was his friend, he had to. He put a hand on the centre of his back and waited for a second.

“Even if you’re not an assassin anymore, that don’t mean you can’t keep the act up,” Engineer prompted. He helped him up, and they walked to the bathroom. He handed him some things. “Clothes and such. And here,” he handed him something sharp. Sniper looked questioningly at him, which didn’t translate well because he underestimated his height and instead stared at his shirt. It was a razor. “If you cut yourself with that or swallow it, you best be aware that I’m going to drag you down to Medic and you’re going to live, and you’re going to be kept under even more supervision. No one is going to like it when you’re handcuffed to a radiator in the interrogation room where you’ll have zero independence, now would we?”

He sounded so condescending. Sniper muttered a sound of affirmation but nothing beyond that as he walked him into the bathroom. He set his things down, and for a second didn’t move, wondering what he should do. If a polite man was telling him that he needed to bathe he guessed he did but he really did not feel too comfortable in such a setting getting undressed. Slowly he started to. The clothes he wore were wet with sweat. It had been days since he last changed even, and he could feel it now despite not feeling it before and became embarrassed. His hair was probably all over the place and he needed to brush his teeth. He started the shower and got in, feeling for the wash and stuff. He shaved, too. This time he didn’t cut himself on mistake, and it felt nice to have a clean face.

He washed, and then stood there for a second, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to get out, the water was so warm and inviting, and out there he’d just have to deal with people. On the other hand he wanted to lay down again, and sleep for a bit. That seemed very appealing too. Sniper did all he needed to do to get clean and dried off, putting the clothes on that Engie got him. He must have just taken the first thing he’d found in his camper van. It felt like a button down and his regular pants though, so it was fine. He went out, feeling the wall, and got guided the rest of the way to sit.

“How old are you, son?” Engie asked.

“Twenty-eight?”

“You’re twenty-eight? How’d you get hired?”

“The administrator came at my door one day asking for me, and that was that.”

“And no one stopped you? Sniper, we’ve worked together for three years. That means you were twenty-five when you got here. Why weren’t you in college? Why’d you give that up to be here?”

“I couldn’t have gone to college, Engie, wasn’t smart enough for that. Me parents aren’t rich. It was this or working on a farm. And I don’t think I could have worked on a farm.”

“This is a grown man’s war. You should be home with your family, not here shooting other men.”

“Go talk to Scout about this, not me. I can’t even fight anymore.”

“You came to this place, looking for something to do with your life, and look at where it got you. That’s why only old men should go to war, and not young people like you. You’ll have to live like this forever or until Medic figures it out. If it was me, I’d of only had to live forty of my life like that.” He was almost raving. Sniper would have walked away from him if he could have, feeling him being dangerous now. Close to more than just words. “And I did talk to Scout. He shouldn’t be here neither. He was only twenty when he came, and I spent the entire year telling him to leave. Stubborn guy. Won’t take no for an answer. Won’t listen to you even when you’re just trying to be kind.”

He waited for Sniper to say something knowing he’d been ranting. He didn’t, and only hunched over, looking at the floor.

“Spy is trying to send him home to his mamma. It’s not going well. He’s saying he doesn’t care if he dies or not,” Engie scoffed. “This is a man’s war, not for people like you or him. I should send Pyro back home. I would have a long time ago. But he don’t got one. He’s here only because if he were anywhere else, he’d a been locked up, and we all know that.”

Sniper didn’t speak but looked down at the ground. Maybe if he’d been smarter and never come there, he wouldn’t have ever had anything wrong with him. No, he knew that. And he honestly blamed his parents for not forcing him to stay instead of just telling him not to. He wished his dad were there so he could have screamed at him, knowing it would have broken his heart to see him like this.

No, in retrospect to his anger at his father for not being more insistent, he didn’t want his parents to ever know about this.

He felt bad. He should have listened, and he knew that deep down, but he’d never admit it. He was just upset.

Engineer was calming down.

“We’re going to the kitchen now and you’re going to eat a full plate of food,” he told him, angry at the circumstances. He grabbed his arm, roughly, and pulled him up. They walked and he continued to talk. “You’re not staying here. You understand? You’re never going to go into battle again. You’ll stay away from Tuefort and you’ll go back home. Working on a farm is better than dying in a ditch. Even if you get your sight back, you ain’t workin’ here no more, boy.”

Sniper stumbled as they walked downstairs and Engie sat him at the table. The people that were in there wondered what was going on. Scout and Spy had just had a long argument that had almost resulted in a fist fight. They looked to Sniper and Engie.

Sniper stayed quiet, looking down at the table with a blank stare as Engie went to go make some food. He slammed pots around, angrily. Cut meat even angrier. Everyone wondered what was so upsetting to him. No one spoke a word, though. It looked like they’d just had an argument as well.

“You’re going back to Boston whether you like it or not,” Spy continued trying to persuade his son, trying to ignore whatever Engineer was working through and glad to have Sniper as an example of what would happen to him if he did stay.

“No, I’m not!”

“You are, or I will tell your mother what you actually do for a living. What was that lie you said? ‘I’m doing some demolition work, taking down buildings, ma!’” Spy imitated his voice perfectly.

“You’re such a bastard! Listening to my freaking phone calls home? You’re lucky I don’t kill you right now!”

“I have your ticket. You’re going home whether you want to or not.” Sniper heard paper slam on the table. “Take it and start packing.”

“This the ticket?” Scout ripped it up in front of him.

“You spoiled brat!” Spy yelled.

“Fuck you, I ain’t leavin’.”

Sniper heard Engie walk over. He grabbed Scout by the collar and got in his face, dangerously close. Quietly, he spoke.

“You’re going to listen to Spy and you’re going to go home,” his voice was like ice. It was contorted into a way only parents could make themselves sound. Angry, menacing. As if yelling would have been better. “Now, go pack, or I’ll do it for you.”

He heard Scout leave and tried to track him with his eyes, though obviously failed.

“And you,” Engie went back to cooking, and dished out a plate. He put it in front of Sniper and took his hand, putting a fork in it. “You’re not leaving until you’ve finished that.”

Spy watched, uncomfortable at his presence where Engie was so paternal. It made him feel inadequate. He started to get up to leave, but was stopped.

“Spy, stop yelling at Scout. You’re just going to make him more defiant.”

“Oh? And what would you know about being a father?”

“‘Parently a lot more than you,” he heard Spy cloak and leave.

Sniper picked at his food, feeling sick as he forced himself to eat. Engineer was seething. He sat down beside him after cleaning up, and watched him eat. The dish was a regular pasta. It had a red sauce on it, and was flavoured well. It was leftovers from the night after Sniper had tried to kill himself, and Pyro had made it. Though, Engie added some meat knowing he was malnourished. It was good. But he just couldn’t do it. Every bite made him want to double over a toilet, and the anxiety that worked his mind made it harder to get down. All he could think about was his blindness. How useless he was. How he couldn’t defend himself if he tried. He was never strong. He always needed to hide to fight. Even the stupid scout could beat him with physical strength, being able to swing a bat well. He looked down and picked at it, not sure how much more he had. He was sick.

“I told you to eat that all, son,” Engineer said, seeing him stop. He really did care. If it meant forcing him to eat he would. He wasn’t impartial to having Medic give him a feeding tube, if he was completely honest. Medic had refused when he suggested it though, stating that he wouldn’t force him to eat unless it meant his life. But he didn’t like how his hands shook, and how pale he’d gotten from the week of no food. He didn’t like seeing his veins through his skin either.

“I can’t do it,” Sniper finally said after trying to eat more. “Please, let me go lay down again.”

“I said no,” he told him.

“I’m a grown man, stop comparing me to a child. Same goes for Scout,” anger stemmed from his treatment.

“If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stop talking and do what you’re told,” Engie glared at him with anger. Sniper mellowed out and went back to picking at the plate. He couldn’t do it, though. It was cold now, and he was sick.

Engineer waited impatiently, watched him. He didn’t understand why it was so hard. He could see that the man knew where it was on the plate. He didn’t know why he couldn’t pick up the fork and put it in his mouth, chew, and swallow. It was painful to watch. Eventually, Sniper’s hand just went limp. He couldn’t do it, and put his hands in his lap, looking down. Engineer got up, and took his limp arm, and forced his hand to grab the fork again.

“I said that you’re going to eat it. You’ve had it before and liked it so I don’t understand why you can’t finish the plate now.” Sniper’s hand went to unfurl as soon as Engie stopped holding it around the fork. This just made him more mad. Here the man was, saying he wasn’t a child, and not finishing his plate. He grabbed it again, and made him hold it. “Eat, Sniper. Or else you’re getting taken to the doctor.”

“There’s no need to take him to me,” Medic cut in, walking into the kitchen. “I’m right here.” Heavy was following him.

“Good. Doc, you’ll agree, he needs to eat and is just refusing.”

Medic went over and looked at the plate, mostly full.

“Did he eat a few bites?”

“Yes, but not enough.”

“Then it’s fine, Engineer. Let him not eat the rest if that’s what he wants.”

Engie was shocked he didn’t agree. When Medic had lost his family during the war, he knew what it had been like to eat. Very difficult. People thought he’d been picky and that was why he was being like that, calling him an entitled medic, as he got the best food and pick of whatever the squadron was having when they went away from the front lines, but it was just because he could never keep it down. He went up and put a hand on Sniper’s back to show where he was.

“Doc, look at ‘em. He’s as thin as a rail.”

“Engineer is right, but Heavy thinks he should listen to doctor anyways,” Heavy said, much to no one’s help in his neutrality.

“As long as he’s having a little bit of food he won’t die. I don’t see the issue in him not eating as much as he should. He isn’t on the battlefield now so there is no danger of us getting in trouble for his lack of nutrition. Besides, a man’s eating habits are his own, it’s not your place to get involved in it.”

“Medic, he can’t eat for himself,” Engie protested.

“Are you his doctor?”

“No.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

The doctor took the plate away and left his side to go pursue cleaning up. Engie also left thinking the doctor was wrong. If it were him, he’d have sat there until he finished it, or again he’d of put a feeding tube in him and kept him in bed. Of course, he felt bad. That was why he was trying to fix it all and prevent anyone else from experiencing such a fate. He went to go work on a solution in his workshop as Heavy sat down next to Sniper and Medic cleaned. Heavy looked at him, pondering if he should talk or not, and just let him be for a bit. He assumed he was embarrassed, as Sniper always got so flustered at such things. He only watched for a bit as his murky eyes stared into the table. Medic finished cleaning up and sat down.

“The administrator called,” Medic said, blandly. “She wanted to know what’s wrong.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No. She’d fire you if that was the case. I still have hope that in a few days we will find a solution.”

“Until then?”

“Until then you are off the payroll. I said you’d come down with a serious illness, from an infection in your kidneys. She seemed to believe it and gave you leave, but that won’t be the same amount.”

“Leave?” Sniper was shocked at her generosity. “Weird.”

“Very unlike her,” Heavy added.

Sniper almost said what he was thinking, ‘she knows and she pities me.’ He kept silent.

“Do you want to go back to your room? I’ll let you be alone as long as you swear you won’t pull another stunt like that again,” Medic enticed.

Sniper instantly looked in his direction. God had blessed him.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Medic agreed. “Come, I’ll guide you.”

“Thank you, Medic.”

“It’s ‘no worries’ as you say,” he replied, helping him up. Heavy was shocked at Sniper’s docility. He went from raving, to sad, to looking completely lost once again.

He gave them privacy as they walked away, wondering what he should have done to help.

Medic had walked him along, and they went to his room in the base. The bed was unmade but it still looked very abandoned.

“There. Should I come to give you dinner?”

“No thanks, mate,” he said, sitting down, and feeling his way to the head of the bed.

“All right. I’ll just let you sleep then, ja? I will be by later if I find anything. Please don’t make me regret me giving you some autonomy and privacy.”

He left him.

Sniper went to sleep.

The earth beneath him shook with explosion. He ducked behind some boxes as he tried to take cover, only to find himself splayed on the ground and covered in mulch. A few more explosions went off and he started to run into a building, climbing as fast as he could to end the enemy Sniper, so that he wouldn’t shoot his knee. He got to the top and aimed him down, hands shaking and breath baited. He took the shot just before the enemy could. His dot remained still where blood now smeared. He laughed.

Then the building started to shake, and he ran down to escape from the new easy target he’d just made of himself. Outside again, the world around him seemed so calm. He was panting with exertion. The gunfire seemed distant as he stared up at the sky not certain what he was looking for. Snow fell. He’d never seen it before and marvelled at it. Coldfront started to show its true colours. It was beginning to look a lot more like a winter ridden place with no greenery. He turned around, looking, and was shocked at the lack of response from other people. He was dumbfounded. It was like light hail that floated. He touched it, and wondered if he’d ever see such a thing again.

He remembered in that instance the end of that battle. Being on the ground, bloody and waiting for the doctor. Covered in snow. As beautiful as it was the first time, thinking about it now made him miss home.

He woke up feeling more exhausted. Someone had sat down at the end of his bed.

Scout stared at him sleeping. Yes, it was creepy. Yes, he knew it was weird to do this. But the man hadn’t replied when he’d called at him. He looked too peaceful to move. He just stared, blankly, unsure if he should even be there.

“Demo?” he asked, quickly, suspecting a spy.

“Uhhh, no. Scout.”

“Scout?” he waited for a second, knowing Spy was fond of shapeshifting into him. “Come t’ stab me, eh? Or get some intel on why we aren’t fighting?”

“No, Snipes... I just uhh, well,” Sniper gave an expression that told him to get on with it, one way or another. “Well, you see... I just uhhh, you know.”

“I really don’t, now if you’re going to stab me in the back please get it over with,” he laid back down accepting fate.

“No, really, it’s me, I promise. Spy’d of just stabbed you without waking you up, don’t you think?”

“I guess that’s a good point. Then why are you here, Scout?” his voice laced with anger.

“Well. I guess I just wanted to say, you know... that like-”

“You’re going to apologize? I don’t forgive you.”

“I wasn’t gonna apologize, and you should be thankin’ me for saving you from your dummy decision,” Scout said, now angry too.

“And got me on house arrest; thanks for that.”

“Well... geez. I’m sorry, Snipes, for not letting you kill yourself.”

There was a pause and Scout almost started to berate him, but Sniper spoke up.

“Scout... I don’t think I can live like this. You don’t realize how painful it is for me. How little I can do that makes me happy. There’s nothing left for me to look forwards to besides sleeping.”

“But it might not be like this forever, Snipes.”

“...Medic isn’t going to find a cure. He would have done so already.”

“Sniper, this is why everyone is trying to help you, so you don’t get depressed while you wait. This is all your fault. I got my knee shot out. You’re not the only one who can’t do anything they’re good at anymore, so shut up!” Scout was angry with him. He was angry his own pain was neglected. Angry his skill was gone, and that he had to remain silent because Sniper was there, trying to off himself.

“Yeah? What is it, Scout? You think not being able to run as fast is worse than going blind?”

“Yeah! I do, because now I ain’t got nothing to do on the team either, so stop being a little bitch about it!”

“Fuck you, Scout!” Sniper sat up.

“No, fuck you! I’m going to beat tha’ shit outta you!”

“Really? That the best you can do? Intimidate me? Threaten me?”

Sniper could feel him getting all up in his face.

“You’re such a freakin’ asshole, brotha’,” Scout was about to walk away, despite his former threat.

“And you live up to the fact that you don’t have a father.”

Scout came back and pushed him into the bed frame, taking a swing at him. Using all his strength, Sniper pushed him off and tried to gauge where he was. They were both standing now. Scout punched him in the gut, and estimating by that, Sniper punched him in the face. Briefly, there was a pause and he thought he made his point, but Scout decided to run at him, and he felt the wind leave his lungs as he got slammed into a wall. He hit at his back, until he relented after a quick kick to the shin, and reeled for a second, as he tried to find where he was. Then, he felt a kick to the side, and he tried to grab his leg and pull to get him off balance. This didn’t work and he got socked in the face, falling back. Scout ran at him again, and they fell to the floor. He was bigger than him so he used that to his advantage and kicked at waist to set him off balance. He tried to get up while Scout was down, but he felt him jump on him again, and a fist to his face. Then another, as he tried to block it.

He grabbed his shirt and dogtags, to hold him still before landing a blow to his left side of his face. Scout reeled but had a hand at his neck and was beating him senseless.

He wouldn’t have had much strength over him anyways. Scout was better at fighting from all those street fights as a kid. Sniper was awful at it, in all honesty. He was weaker than Spy, and Spy had to rely on sneaking up on people to do any sort of damage. But it made him more upset now finding he’d hardly stood a chance at all. He let himself be beat after a second, giving up.

Downstairs, Spy heard the commotion. He’d watched Scout go up and thought better than to follow. The morning paper was far more interesting to him than an argument between those two anyways. So, he let them fight. When blows came to be thrown he did do the responsible thing and stood up, going upstairs in a hurry. When he saw it was his son in a blind rage, he walked up and pulled him off of the sniper, trying to get him against the wall and hold him there.

“ENOUGH! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he looked over at Sniper, who was curling in on his side and putting an arm over his face. “DID YOU BEAT HIM, SCOUT?”

“That bastard started it!” he said, spitting blood onto the carpet.

Sniper didn’t defend himself and groaned in pain.

“I don’t care who started it, ARE YOU THAT MUCH OF AN IMBECILE THAT YOU THINK ITS ALL RIGHT TO BEAT YOUR TEAMMATE? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” He grabbed him by the collar and gave him a hard slap across the face. Then, as he reeled, he gave him another. “Your friend, no less! Are you insane?”

“The guy fucking started it, Spy! Stay out of it,” Scout went to push him away to maybe beat Sniper some more, but he underestimated Spy. He got pushed into the wall again. This time, Spy gave him a good hit across the face, and let him fall to his knees. He got in his face, too, after that, holding him by the collar of the back of his shirt.

“You are acting like a child, Scout. How dare you beat that man, and how dare you try to go back to doing it. Leave,” he threatened.

Scout spat blood again, courtesy of Sniper, and glared at Spy, before getting up and stomping away. Spy got up and went over to Sniper, putting a hand on his arm.

“Do you want me to take you to Medic?”

“Fuck off,” Sniper said, angrily pushing his hand away as he sat up.

Ah.

Now Spy saw that they both had gone to the trouble of upsetting one another. It seemed the pissing contest between the two wasn’t over yet. He waited and let him sit up on his own, watching him.

“Leave me alone,” Sniper groaned out through his teeth.

“I don’t want to leave you-,”

“I DON’T CARE, LEAVE!”

Spy watched for a second before sighing and going, shutting the door behind him.

Sniper crawled back to bed, aching and disoriented.

Later, Spy found Scout hiding on top of a large stack of bins after a few hours. He didn’t really know why he wanted to talk to him. Maybe to berate him more, or maybe he would just stare him down and make him leave due to discomfort. When he heard him laughing instead, he was quite angry with him. He beat up his only real friend and here he was taking pleasure in it.

Though, on further inspection he found he wasn’t laughing at all, and was actually remorseful for what he’d done, with skin blotchy, and misunderstanding with the stress of the event making it all more horrific. He had his legs dangling over the side and was just laying on his back, an arm over his eyes.

“Jeremy? What are you doing here?”

“...” he tried to regain composure quickly. “Nothing, go to hell, Spy,” he spat at him, rolling over so his back would face him.

Spy stood there, leaning backwards a bit on his heels.

“Sniper isn’t mad at you. Even if you did beat him, if that’s why you’re so upset. And the only reason your leg is still like this is because the doctor has just been focused on him. It will eventually heal fully,” he promised.

Scout didn’t answer. Jeremy did.

“I’m worried about it all. I want Sniper to feel better and I want my leg to feel better and it just is getting worse and worse...” a pause, “are you still going to make me go home?”

Spy didn’t answer for a second. He’d climbed up one of the containers and was level with his face. He put a hand on his arm, and Scout looked at him.

“I have to, Scout... because that’s what a responsible person would do. You need to understand that it’s only to protect you. Even if you don’t like it.”

“How am I supposed to support my ma with that shit, Spy?”

“I’ll guarantee a high paying job, and if you don’t get it, then I’ll give you part of my check if that’s really what you’re worried about. But I don’t think it is, is it? You have the skill set to be many things, and you’ll enjoy lots of jobs. Being a mercenary is for people who want to do things under the radar and people who are too criminal or insane to get a job anywhere else. You’re not one of them.”

“Nor are you. Nor is Heavy. Nor is Sniper,” Scout protested.

“You don’t know a lot about me, boy. And Heavy is here because of the paycheck for his family, too. He’s a criminal in Russia so he also doesn’t really have a choice. And Sniper... Sniper is like you. He didn’t know any better.”

Scout stayed quiet, thinking.

“I’ll be buying you a ticket out of here, for as soon as possible. Please, Scout... for once please accept this.”

Spy went away, leaving the boy to be alone. He went to his room, locking all the doors and performing a security check as he always did. When he was satisfied, he sat down at the phone, and looked through some notes he’d put in his drawer under a false bottom. Phone numbers to all of the family members of the team. His petite chou fluer was number one, of course. Next was all of Heavy’s family, and then the others. The only two outliers on the list were Engineer and Medic. Medic because everyone he knew from before there was dead, and he hardly even had a past for it, and Engineer because his father was employed in a very similar fashion to his son. It rose red flags, so he always kept tabs on it.

He keyed in the number to Sniper’s abode and waited on the other line, sitting down and relaxing with a smoke. He leaned back in his chair, twisting the wire to the phone in his fingers. On the other end a confused woman answered.

“Hello?” came her accented voice.

“Hello, am I speaking to...” he squinted his eyes to read his own writing, “one Catherine Mundy?”

“That’s me,” her heart sank.

“I am a coworker of your son’s. I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” he told her, turning in his chair a bit and taking a drag of smoke.

“Oh,” she clutched the phone to her chest and reeled, dropping to her knees. Her husband came up beside her, equally worried. She knew it! Something was wrong when he didn’t call. He always called. Always wrote. It made her heart ache. The man grabbed the phone from her, holding her with one arm.

“Hullo? Who is this?”

“I’m a coworker of your son’s, there’s been an accident,” Spy repeated calmly.

His heart sank too, but he bit it back seeing that he needed to support his wife.

“What’s happened? Is Mick all right?” his voice was soft with concern. Spy took another long drag. They were so careless with giving his real identity.

“Well, I’m afraid that he’s been confined to the infirmary for a little while. And he’s unfortunately lost his sight in the line of duty.”

“His sight? Can no longer see?”

“I’m afraid so. I was calling to make arrangements considering his state. He cannot stay here and our doctor doesn’t trust him to be alone,” he omitted why. “Should you come to get him, I could give you the address and-”

“We’ll be on the next flight over, where is it?”

Spy gave the address. The other man wrote.

“All right. Thank you for calling us,” and it went to dial tone.

Spy pushed his cigarette into an ash tray before calling another travel agency to get Scout a ticket out of there.

Sniper had a leg drawn up to his chest, and was still sitting in bed. A couple days after, the administrator had come and taken him from the company name, revoking some access but still allowing him to stay. It didn’t matter. She was already looking for new replacements anyways. So, he laid in bed uncertain of what action he should take or even if he wanted to move to begin with.

Medic had brought him a radio from downstairs, it was spitting nonsense so he’d turned it off and was just sitting in silence. Footsteps walked in.

“Mickey?” a voice came. Sniper furrowed his brows, uncertain. Hands touched his face, and he half sat up. “Oh... my dear” she asked.

“Impersonating me mother? Real classy of you. Been list’ening in on my phone calls home?” he barely covered his rage.

“What are you on about, boy?” his father asked, irritably.

He felt his mother’s unfamiliar hands touch under his eyes and hold his face. He was afraid, and his eyes shot between the two noise sources, confusing him, wondering if they were true or if they were false. There was silence.

“Oh, luv, what have they done to you?” his mother’s voice rang in his ears.

For the entire time he’d been blind so far he hadn’t cried. Even when he woke up in the infirmary he didn’t cry. He didn’t cry as he swallowed all those pills. He didn’t cry in the shower on the first night. Or when he first woke up. Anger, yes, lingering loss, yes. Never finally succumbing to the sadness he never let himself do. But as her hands touched under his eyes, and her voice, which sounded so familiar, told him that she felt his loss, he started to sob. His mum pulled him close, and he sobbed into her shoulder as she held him. He felt his father sit on the opposite side of the bed, and remain quiet, only putting a hand on his back to confirm that he too wished to be there but didn’t know how. There was no catharsis as he choked out his sorrows, there was only mourning.

He didn’t care that he sounded like a little girl. He didn’t care that his father was there and it wasn’t only his mother. He didn’t even seem to think that despite how quiet he was in comparison to others, he could still be heard by those downstairs and whoever had taken his parents to him. He just sobbed without remorse. A firm hand on his arm, and his mother holding him close, one hand in his hair, the other supporting him by the waist. He had missed his mother the most. He cried, and sobbed, and eventually he started to choke to a stop, calming down enough. His mother still held him, but his father had stood again, and was awkwardly wondering what he should do to help.

He wasn’t prepared for this as a father.

“Oh, dear...” she told him. She too had cried silently. Her voice was raw and his was barren. He was always so quiet. “There,” she smoothed back some of his hair, gently, looking at his face again. He breathed, facing her sadly. “Mickey, oh, my dear.” Her thumb traced the bruises on his face, and the scars on his eyes.

He sensed his father moving again, and his eyes shot to the sound.

“You’re coming home, boy,” he told him. Sniper looked down and nodded silently. He knew his dad had warned him. All those arguments and he was right all along. He nodded. He wouldn’t argue with dad anymore.

“Where are your things, luv?” his mother asked, cupping his face.

“In me van. ‘Spose you’re going to sell it. And me guns.”

“Well, we can’t take it back to Australia with us, dear,” she said, quietly.

“I’ll let you keep some of your guns if you really want. Don’t know what use you’ll have for ‘em but I know a few you bought with yer first pay check so it wouldn’t be right t’ take ‘em from yeh,” his dad said. He sounded cold, and calculating. Sniper would have liked him to yell, almost. At least then he wouldn’t feel so pitied. After all this time, berating him for leaving for years, telling him what a worthless son he was for not being the successor on the farm, here he was with all the opportunity in the world to rub it in his face that he was right, and yet he didn’t say a word. He was firm and cold, only offering comfort in the barest of ways, but he didn’t speak a word about his triumph. He was too bitter.

“How about we get that paperwork in order, you and I stay here and your father will get all your things in the rental car, eh?”

Sniper nodded, melancholically.

“Which of your guns you want to keep?”

Sniper thought for a second. He wanted all of them. He’d spent thousands to procure those and alter them, the Sydney Sleeper being his prized altered one. Still, two stuck out to him.

“There’s one in a case that has ‘Machina’ on it, and another case with no writing on it. Those ones. The passcode is one, two, three, four.”

“A’right,” his father said with an accent that had slowly been fading from Sniper’s enunciations. He left after giving him a quick pat on the back again, squeezing his shoulder slightly. Sniper looked down regretfully.

“Are these bruises from you fighting?” his mother asked as he left. Sniper was trying to lay down again while he waited.

“Bruises? No. I just got into an argument with one of the other guys not long ago.”

“Oh, the one that’s outside your door?”

“What d’ya mean, mum?”

“There’s a boy outside the door. He was guarding it, I think. Had bruises all over him too, was carrying a bat. Or was he keeping you in?”

“...No. He was trying to guard it,” knowing Scout wouldn’t do that. He was shocked at the act, however.

“Ah. Boys. Always fighting and then acting like brothers hours later.”

“He’s a good friend,” he admitted.

Silence passed, and the mundane conversation left him thinking about his situation once again. He tried to hold back tears, but silently they slipped down his cheeks and stained the pillow. He felt her hand rub them away gently, and she stroked his hair again. She had never lied to him, even when she should have to spare his feelings in adolescence. Never told him that it would be okay, and that all would be well again. She only gave truth. Sometimes he saw it as mercy, her not having that same optimistic hope many mothers did for their children. Other times he wished she had lied, told him that he would have eventually made friends in the small Australian town they lived closest to, and that he and his father would work things out and never argue again. She didn’t grant that mercy. Not now. Not ever. But she did provide one bit of hope, a realistic version of what all mothers want to say to their broken children.

“You’ll get used to it, dear, it will just become a way of life eventually. You’ll be happy again. I promise,” she said, whispering to him as she held his head close to her.

He didn’t reply but silently sobbed.

They left that night, a plane to catch back to Australia. His father was helping him take care of things with the bank, and had bought him luggage for the plane.

He didn’t say goodbye to anyone besides Medic. Medic had promised he’d find a cure. Sniper didn’t have hope but didn’t stop the man. Scout, though he wished to say goodbye, watched his car leave from the rooftop. He waved. Then he muttered a curse at himself knowing it was stupid to wave at a blind man. Instead, he watched the dust, before resuming his packing himself.

When they sold the van, he waited in the car. When they came back, he sobbed. He didn’t know why all the sudden his anger had left him and was replaced by a whining version of his once stoic self, but he had loved that stupid truck. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to it.

The plane ride was awful. He was scared and stuck his nails into the seats with knuckles going white. Planes in general weren’t fun for him and not seeing just made it worse.

The ride home felt familiar.

The turn into the driveway felt familiar, and the shifting of the car. He heard his dad push in the clutch and leave it stopped, turning it off. There was silence.

“I’ll guide you, Micheal,” his dad told him. Sniper winced. They never used anything but Mick.

“A’right, dad,” he replied. His father got out of the car and took his arm, helping him out and beginning to walk him to the door. The sun beat down on him, and he pushed the glasses Demo gave him higher up the ridge of his nose. They sat just above his scar. He guided him up the stairs, the faint sound of sheep in the distance the only thing that made him believe this was all real. The key in the door, and the dryness of the house washed over him as he went in. “Yeh going to get into bed, then?” his father inquired.

“Yeah,” he said, and his dad started to guide him upstairs to his room, letting him feel the wall.

“You can’t stay in bed all day. Your doctor told me that you’d sleep entire days away. That’s not going to be tolerated under my roof.” Sniper knew that he was trying to get him to be less depressed in the only way he knew how, but the nagging just reminded him of all the fights they had about his profession.

“I know, dad,” his voice sounded raw. His dad relented.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the bank and get your money transferred. So dress nicely since we’re going into town.”

Sniper nodded and felt for his old bed. It still had that comfortable, homely feel.

“I’ll be back with dinner when mum makes it. We’re going to have to make a new system so rest up for tomorrow.”

Sniper nodded and heard the door close. He wondered about his guns and where they’d put them. His mother had a strict rule; no guns allowed in the house. Sniper didn’t want them in the garage, however. It wasn’t some cheap shotgun. Perhaps she would make an exception considering the circumstances. They were more decoration now anyways. His heart sank at the thought of them going into the cellar, but then he realized they wouldn’t be getting any use from him and their only function would be for him to touch, to know they were there and that the dream of his lived experience was real by the proof of his weapons. No ammunition, not that he could have shot them anyways. He curled up closer around himself. He started to fade, hearing the familiar clinking of the stove downstairs, and hushed voices of his parents trying to make a plan for him.

He stopped crying then. Emotionlessness filled him. Nothing really mattered anymore, and he was waiting to die.

Life on the farm wasn’t normal. The first few days his dad forced him to get up and out of bed. He made the transfer back to the Australian bank he had been with, and was getting around in the small town nearby with his father’s guide. This didn’t work out after a bit. He was too embarrassed about everyone knowing him. He stayed in the car for the rest of the errands. So, his father contrived to get him to work. Work always made him feel at peace, so if his son felt useful, maybe he wouldn’t be so sad all the time if the labour intense distraction was enough to sate his mind. It didn’t go well, and Sniper ended up having his mother clean a nasty wound from a sheep that had kicked at him. He wouldn’t be helping herd them anymore. He laid in bed a lot after that, barely eating and only rarely having a shower.

That night his mother and father had gone downstairs and talked in hushed tones.

“What are we going to do?” his father asked her, cleaning up after a dinner Sniper refused to eat. “What happens when we die? He won’t be able to take care of himself.”

“By that time, luv, he won’t be like this. He’ll get used to it, he just needs time.”

“I know, but what if he doesn’t? Then what? Are we going to have to watch him waste away?” He choked a little. “I don’t want to have to bury my son.”

His wife was so much stronger than him. She came up and wrapped her arms around his waist, loosely.

“He just needs a little more time. Until then, I think the best we can do is let him work through it. We should take it as it comes, we can cross those bridges when we get there. It hasn’t been a month yet.”

The man took his glasses from his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I know. I’m impatient. I rush him,” he said.

“You do, you’ve both got opposite personalities. He’s very slow to come to conclusions about things, where you’re always on a short fuse. Try to relax. I think the best we can do right now is try to get him to do little things, not big things like working.”

“You’re right, luv. As always.”

The next day Sniper had gone mute. His replies were with nods or shaking his head, and he didn’t move out of bed. It was very upsetting for his father who tried to be patient.

“Get up,” he told him.

Sniper didn’t move.

“Your mother made French toast for breakfast. That’s your favourite. Now. Get up so she doesn’t feel like it’s going to waste.”

When Sniper didn’t move again, he went downstairs and brought it up to him. It broke a rule of eating together at the table. A rule he was willing to have broken if it meant he could eat what his mother made him and feel better.

“I’ll let you eat in your room today, but you know how rude it is. You’ll get sick if you don’t eat and you have enough goin’ on. I’m not going to tolerate this. It’s on your bedside, here’s your fork.”

Sniper didn’t move to take it, and his father felt a little embarrassed considering he knew that even if he shoved it in his face he wouldn’t know it was there. He took his hand and curled it around the fork. Sniper hung onto it but didn’t move to eat.

“I’ll be back at noon for lunch.”

When he returned, the only thing that had changed was the fork slipping from his hand and onto the ground. He stared, silently at his son.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

No response.

“Answer,” he demanded. Sniper shook his head no, burying his face into the pillows.

“Then you’re going to do at least one thing today. I won’t make you eat lunch if you have a shower, and get into night clothes. I don’t like you sleeping all day in that uniform of yours. You look a mess and you are a mess.”

“I’m sorry, dad,” was all he could manage to say to him.

His father stopped speaking. He looked down at him, feeling bad for berating him to apologize when he hadn’t done anything blasphemous. He picked up the fork and he went downstairs, not wanting to speak more. His mother came up and was the one to get him to have a shower and clean himself up. She even changed his sheets and brought him some water, knowing he must have been thirsty from the heat. When he got into bed, she watched him for a bit, wondering what he was thinking about.

“Your water’s on the bedside, luv. Try not to be so sad. Your father is just trying to make things better. He’s not meaning to sound mean.”

She left after kissing his temple.

It stayed like this for a very long time. Sniper wasted away. There were days when he didn’t move at all, and only stayed very still. He’d sleep so often his parents thought there was something physically wrong with him, and had a doctor to the house. A medicine woman, as they called her. She said there was nothing actually wrong with him, and told them he was just unwell. This didn’t help them much. He became horrifically thin. His wrist bone jutted out, and his clavicle was so distinct that it looked out of place. The sun didn’t touch him, and his skin became so white that his mother thought he were a ghost of some kind. His father did not like it. He’d stopped coming upstairs, but would still try his hardest. He bought him things like a cane, and lessons in the other town over for how to use it, but Sniper just couldn’t do it. His mum came in often, and would touch him, to see how it progressed. She could feel his ribs as she trailed her hands down his back, telling him how happy she would have been if he came down and ate something.

She broke down one day and hugged him. It was like touching a corpse. She sobbed into his back, and this really broke him in some way, or it changed something because he shifted and put a boned arm around her. He said he was sorry. But those words were all he could utter.

Then one day his dad came in his room, after months of not speaking to him. With him, a small package.

“Your doctor sent this from New Mexico. The note says you inject it into your arm,” he said, sitting down beside him. Sniper looked to the source. The stupid hope filled him. He sat up. This was the most lively he’d been since he got there. His father smiled, and took out the syringe as he eagerly handed him his arm.

He gave him the shot.

It didn’t work.

He was devastated.

“He’ll send more. Don’t mope too much, boy,” his father said, a hand on his back.

He was going to die. He was physically ill now from the self-imposed weakness and breathed as one does when sick. His mother thought it was from his father traipsing in disease from the sheep. His father accused the eating habits. It was both, but she fretted day and night by his side. He’d fever, pull out of it, then get sick again. The doctor’s saw him, prescribed herbal medicines, the only thing his parents believed in, and truthfully a lot of it did help. But he’d always came down again with something.

One day, his father came in with another syringe. It didn’t come from the medic. It came from a man he payed half his savings to.

“Are you awake, Mick?” he asked. Sniper lazily gazed to his direction.

“Yeah.”

“I have something. It’s a shot again. It’s not from the doctor. It’s from here...” he started. Sniper wasn’t interested. “It’s guaranteed to cure this. But the second supplies go away...” his voice trailed off. “You’ll die. I don’t want you to take it. It’s expensive. You won’t have long to live. But... I’ll allow it. Because your mother can’t take you staying like this. And we can’t take our money with us when we die so we should spend our savings on something.”

Sniper sat up. He was curious. He didn’t have a hesitation when he answered.

“I need it,” he said desperately.

“I know,” his father replied, gently taking his arm.

He held his elbow, looking at him, and then at the veins. His thumb touched over the sensitive part that was bruised from previous injections, all of which failed. He stuck this one in, watching the gold liquid clutch out the green and shift through him until it dissipated enough that it was unrecognizable. Sniper sat for a second, his eyes closed, and breathing sharply as it worked. When he opened them again, the world made itself clear. He was astonished at how beautiful his mundane room looked. He looked to his dad, before throwing his arms around his neck and hugging him.

His dad hugged back, ready to cry at the fact that he’d only have so long to live now. This was borrowed time. He couldn’t be happy for him. Being a naturalistic family, they had cut themselves off from the Autralium filled waters supplied from the government, even at the detriment of not having the same physique nor intelligence the miracle substance granted their peers. At the time it costed them little but without being able to be near indestructible as other people from their nation were stereotyped to be, in retrospect he was beating himself up for his previous neglect of it. Had he been less keen on keeping it away from his son, perhaps they would not have needed to rely on its purified form then. Perhaps Mick would not have turned to sickness and ash when they ran out of supplies, as he knew he now would.

“It worked, dad. It worked!” he didn’t cry for tears of joy, he was just astonished.

“I know,” his father pulled away. He showed him the syringe. “It’s called Australium. I’ve got a man who works at the mines who sells it to me. You’re going to need to pay a lot for it. Your bank account won’t take kindly. With the money you have, another seven to ten years ought to be it. If it doesn’t dry up.”

Sniper nodded, peacefully accepting it. Death would have been better than blindness to him.

“Well, I can work and get more funds then.”

“Of course, now that you’ll be able to see the farm our income will double.”

There was a pause, and Sniper stood up.

“I made more money bein’ an assassin, dad.”

As he went to look at his clothes, his father got up.

The silence deafened him. His father scoffed.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, thinking he must have been joking.

“What d’ye mean?” Sniper asked, innocently. He turned to look at him confused.

“After all that... you’re going to go back? You just came home! You’ve been a-... a SHELL for the past six months, and you want to go back? Mick, you can’t be serious.”

Sniper turned and gave him such a dumbfounded expression.

“‘Course I’m serious, dad,” he sounded confused. “If I want to live longer, I need to do higher paying work than selling wool in Australia!”

His dad scoffed. All that hard work and sacrifice, and his dunce of a son was throwing it away to go off people again.

“I was right about you, you’re mentally sick,” he told him. “I could accept marksmanship. I could accept hunting. Killing people for money? I accepted it when I saw how well you were doing and how often you called. I did not care for it, but I still wanted you in my life. The fact you want to go back to it, Mick, tells everyone that all you’ve cared about this entire time was the fact you couldn’t shoot people for hire all day. You’re sick in the head. And I for one am glad I can have you out of my house. Seven months of taking care of you... only for this,” his father was in the heat of the moment. The next day he would have been more understanding, but he was mad then and was going to make Sniper know it.

Sniper went to go downstairs, and quickly filed through the kitchen to his mother.

“It worked!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, it did. Where me guns, mum?”

“Just in the garage.”

“-AND YOU JUST LEAVE US THE SECOND YOU CAN, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD.”

“Oh, luv, what are you yelling about?” she asked.

“HE WANTS TO LEAVE AND GO BE A CRAZED GUNMAN AGAIN!”

“Mickey, that can’t be true?”

“It isn’t! I don’t want to be a crazed gunman,” he went out the door to find his rifles.

The couple stayed in the kitchen. His father fumed.

“Dear, you’re driving him away. Don’t,” she stopped him from following. “You’ll just make it worse. Let me.”

He reluctantly listened as she went out. Sniper was inspecting his Machina to see the true damage. It was worse than he felt.

“Come, luv, you can’t be serious,” she protested.

“He wants me to stay here and die in a few years. I could go and assassinate a few blokes who have questionable morals anyways, and live for fifty!”

He slammed the case shut, and went to go change. He wouldn’t be staying. Not now. He was on the next flight to the States. His uniform felt so loose and unfitting, but he tightened his belt and slung his new hat on. His father had gotten it for him as a replacement for the old one, on the rare occasions he’d sit on the porch, to drink some moonshine. Sniper went out back again and got his guns, before turning into the house. His mother looked at him, and his father had retreated to glaring at the ground with crossed arms.

“Mickey, you’re not thinking straight. Please, dear. You can’t leave. If you leave, then... then who will take care of us the way we did you?” Sniper’s mother pleaded.

He stopped for a second. The way her voice shook. He knew it wasn’t right to go. He sighed.

Fine. He’d stay.

His dad was over the moon.

Mick was taught the trade, but he didn’t belong in Australia. He dreamed of going away. One night, he was drinking moonshine on the porch with his father. His legs were slung over his chair, and his lanky body barely contorted to fit. His father came out with a letter he’d been hiding. He tossed it to him. It was from Mann. Co. He was drunk and looked it over.

A call to arms. To fight against a third party, two teams were merging into one and they needed a sniper. Contemplatively in his relaxed state, Sniper only thought of how the Administrator had known. Had she spied on him herself or gotten Spy to do it? He leaned back.

“I know you’re not going to stay here, boy, but I wish you would.”

“I know, dad... I’m sorry that I can’t.”

He was gone by morning.

The wife held the husband as he cried for his boy, worried about what would become of him. He promised to call home, but it wasn’t the same. It had happened all those years ago as it happened again then.

“Come luv,” she said, “he’s a smart man when it comes to this thing. He’s grown up, he can take care of ‘imself. Stop worrying.”

And the couple walked to the kitchen, leaving the porch where a chair sat empty.

Despite her assurances, neither did stop worrying.