Whoops, I wrote a fluff. Have some Trucks 'n Vans with a side of dropping houses on witches. /***/ A slight swelling in his chest stirred the Engineer. He grumbled, pressing his head against the back of the old leather couch. Soft hair brushed by his cheek. He tilted his head to the right, a small smile creeping its way across his face. Well, this was rare. He thought of it being almost impossible. The Sniper was asleep, his head buried into the crook of the Engineer's shoulder, legs flung over the arm rest. It was strange enough that he'd even dared to fall asleep outside of his van, considering his paranoia about the enemy Spy. Even when he did, it was only for practical reasons—he couldn't make it back to his van, it was too cold, somebody was there to watch him, so on. He was not exactly—well, neither was the Engineer, but—ah, was it even worth wondering how it'd happened? The Engineer sunk into the couch, studying the call sign for their cable affiliate on the television set. They'd been up watching movies all night. Just whatever was on the channels that they could receive. It was one of those unusual occasions where something tolerable was on the tube. Not junk sci-fi flicks. Not war propaganda. Genuine American cinema. And heck, the Sniper hadn't seen a lot of films. It was a good way to burn time. They'd been too late to catch the entirety of Casablanca, which was a bit of a shame, but they'd caught The Wizard of Oz after that. Well, he thought they had. He'd fallen asleep sometime between a house being dropped on the Wicked Witch of the East and this call sign. Lord knows when the Sniper slipped into slumber. Ah, well. It had still been a good night, anyway. He wiped his face with his free hand. He was feeling a little under the weather, the stress starting to catch up with him. Even the constant respawning did only so much to take away his fatigue. It was surprising that their entire team didn't drop dead from what they underwent on a daily basis. He probably should have gone back to his bedroom, but the weight and warmth on his shoulder kept him anchored. Ah, heck, what did it matter? It wasn't like anyone was going to storm the recreation room and mock them. Everybody had somebody to rely on, someone to confide in during their weak moments. Some of them even—well, at first he'd—but, when you got down to it— Well, how could he put it? The Engineer had spent so much time with his nose in books that he'd never really had time to explore anything outside of a congenial friendship. Even his own mother and father had been cool and reserved, too busy in their own work to be intimate. Public displays of affection? That was flat out. Now that he was out in the world, not buried waist deep in books and sludge from oil wells, he felt out of place and awkward. War had changed him. He didn't have patience for the domestic side of life. And while there were good women out there—hell, there was a good woman working as the Administrator's secretary—they were few and far between, snatched up early and often by brutes. Bar trolls and malt shop teens did little to catch his eye. He didn't think this would happen. He was a son of the Lone Star state, a man's man. Okay, maybe he was a little short, but still. Most men like him—well, the ones he knew—were more parody than truth, more rhinestone than cowboy. He hadn't considered himself a friend of Dorothy's, but that was before he'd been cut down and humbled by this blasted war. He'd seen acts of compassion and bravery beyond anything he'd experienced before. Men risking their lives for each other, braving bullets and fire to save their fellow man. When he realized he was a part of this cycle, when he saw he did things that no normal man did to comfort and rally his team, then he began to recognize the pangs in his heart as something beyond friendship. So, what did it matter what the Medic and the Heavy did together? Did it really mean anything when the Soldier and the Demoman had to sleep off their drunkenness in the American's Jeep? Wasn't it okay if the Spy loved the Scout's mother, if it meant he'd spend more time to defend that young man? If the Sniper slept on his shoulder—if he came to the Texan when he was in danger, alone, abandoned—did it matter if he was all too eager to lend that part of himself? It kept them together, gave them a reason to fight. The Engineer closed his eyes, leaning his head against the Sniper's. It was too much to think about right now. The stress and confusion wound around him, made his good hand feel numb. His robotic fingers rested on the Sniper's stomach, his arm behind that vulnerable spine. Dignity be damned. This was what he wanted, what he thrived on. He couldn't be the world's perfect man, but he could be a decent fellow in this little room. He drifted back to sleep, his pulse flittering away. Maybe that was what made waking up so much more horrific. He had awakened outside, his body crumpled against an old train car. He was coated in dust. Hell, everything was sand-blasted. The skies were strange, smeared with dirty clouds. The Engineer's heart began racing. He was unarmed, alone, a crumpled couch shattered beneath him. He jumped onto his feet, trying to figure out where he was. The Engineer hiked away from the train car, going up a hill and over a rickety bridge. What had happened? Everything was stripped bare, crops completely wiped out from the fields surrounding the main roads. Missiles were plucked from unsecured silos, lying like fat logs in the dust. Well, there went the reason to defend their turf in Granary. Some of the wooden fencing had been ripped asunder, barbed wire knotted around electrical poles. This was a disaster. It would take years to repair. No, now was not the time to worry about that. The Engineer cupped his hands around his face, giving the team's emergency call. "Anybody out there? Hat check!" Okay, so perhaps it was a little quirky. It would get an immediate response from anybody, if they were out there. The only noise to return his calls was the wind. Now that he thought about it, it was rather blustery. He continued his jog around the countryside, getting a grip on where he was. Granary was located on the New Mexican-Texan border, rather close to the northeastern side of New Mexico. Tornadoes were rare in the state overall, but close to Texas and Oklahoma, the probability for a twister did increase. Maybe it'd just been a fluke. God, he hoped the respawn generator was oaky. Worst case scenario, the next fortress over would kick on and recreate his teammates from a copy stored in a floating satellite. Still, that would leave him alone, unprotected. If somebody from the other team had survived— Another awkward shudder in his chest threw off his pace. He ignored the pain, trying to find his way back to the base. The Engineer kept calling to his teammates, his queries unanswered. He trotted down a driveway, finding himself back his team's barracks. The base was completely leveled. Vehicles were tossed aside like scorned toys, buried face down into the dust. He coughed, pieces of the campsite raining down in yellow clumps around him. Nobody could have survived this. It was a direct hit by some cruel force of nature. He couldn't let it be. He had to find somebody. The Engineer pushed into the remains of the barracks, finding the stairwell into the basement. He'd been plucked up and pitched away like a little scrap. There was no way that the Sniper could have—no, he had to see. What if he were trapped down there, pinned under timbers? Hell, what if any of them were down there? The basement was supposed to be the safest place in a storm like this. Somebody had to have the brains to get to safety. He jogged into the remains of the rec room, his heart thumping in heavy, consistent rolls. There was something in the shadows, crushed under plaster and wood. A cry escaped him before he could pipe it away. The Engineer jumped into the mess, flinging debris aside. No, he couldn't let any of them—he couldn't let that bastard—not like this. His robotic hand touched something out of place. It was large enough to fit in the palm of his hands. Pulling back, the Engineer felt his heart stop. No. This was—this couldn't be. It was metallic, crafted and bolted into a soft, pleasing shape. There was a clock in the center of it, face undamaged by the storm. It continued ticking softly, his pulse slowing to match it. He pressed his human hand along the top, running his finger tips along the daisy chain that led to a clasp. The metal glowed in the dismal, murky world, the most brilliant shade of red he'd ever seen. He knew what this was, something that was beyond reality. He was holding the Tin Man's Heart. /***/ With a gasp of air, the Engineer woke up. Of all the things he could have done, he laughed. Of course it was a dream. Why not? Things hadn't added up, anyway. Everything had been so wrong, hadn't it? Not to say that his life wasn't sometimes like a wide-awake nightmare, but he was usually capable of telling fact from fiction. Still, he was grateful. He was alive, everything was okay, and he was—wait. He was in the Medic's infirmary. That certainly didn't seem right. The Engineer propped himself up, taking a moment to observe his settings. He found his shirt and overalls cut, a medi-beam pointed squarely at his chest. Surgical tools were out, but cleaned. A blood-splattered gizmo lay on the counter next to the tools. He recognized the little device. That was the component that the Medic had attached to their hearts so that they could be charged when the capricious German felt the need for them to become invincible. Well, there had to be a good reason it wasn't in his chest. He frowned, wondering what could have—oh. A small sigh escaped him. He found the Sniper at his bedside, sleeping in one of the chairs from the front lobby. His hat was tilted down, a tattered novel on his stomach, his face fixed in a low frown as he slumber. But why—oh, did he need to ask? He knew why. He slipped his hand across the bed, finding the Sniper's own on the chair's arm rest. Fingers laced into his. The Engineer wasn't sure if that was instinctual, or— "Hey, Truckie." The Engineer smiled. "Hey, Stretch." He gave the Sniper's hand a light squeeze. "Care ta tell me why I'm here?" "'Bout died on me, ya bloody bastard." The Sniper spoke harshly, but a grin was just below the brim of his hat. "Heart attack." The Engineer's eyes widened. "Ya kiddin'?" The Sniper shook his head. "Doc thinks that the wiring in that gadget he put in ya was bad. Had ta take it out. He's already put a fresh one in." "Really? Well, I'll be damned," the Engineer said. Death wasn't as much of a deterrent to a team with a machine capable of reviving them at will, but it was something to be concerned about. Faults had a way of carrying over between deaths. One had resulted in several new scars on the Sniper, the most prominent being the horizontal strike across the left side of his face. Not to mention a night of hell for him. The Engineer shuddered, thinking about how that man had been left alone in his van for hours, constantly dying until the Texan had gotten him stabilized. If that happened to him, the entire base could be endangered. He was the only one with enough tech savvy to keep their machine going. If both he and the machine crapped out, it could be curtains for everyone. Despite all of this, he was surprised to find that he was taking this health emergency much better than the Sniper. The Australian tipped his hat back, his eyes dark and weary. "Are ya—I mean, do ya feel—" "I'm okay. Don't have ta worry about me." The Engineer patted his hand twice. He glanced over at the clock, trying to tell the time. Geez, it had to be past four o'clock. "If ya'd like, ya could probably head back ta yer van. No reason ta stay on my account." The Sniper nodded, but didn't move an inch. "Told the Doc I'd watch over ya. He needs more sleep than I do, anyway." That brought another slow grin to the Texan's face. Of course. That damned Australian had a stubborn streak to him, but it coupled nicely with his loyalty. That was probably why he was such easy prey for the enemy Spy. He just trusted his teammates so much that sometimes he couldn't tell a lie from the truth. It didn't go unnoticed. Not by his enemies and not by the Engineer. "Well, then." The Engineer pushed himself away, settling down on the right side of his cot. "Come here." The Sniper cocked his head, confused by the request. "What?" "Lay down," the Engineer beckoned. There was a moment's hesitation from his friend. "I—well, what if the Doc—" The Engineer smiled. "If anyone'll understand, it's the Doc. Don't worry." His soft words finally won the Sniper over. There wasn't a lot of extra room on the cot, but there was just enough for the trim man to wriggle into. He laid on his back, a little rigid. The Engineer wrapped his left arm around him, getting him to settle down. Bones and muscles loosened, melting into his grasp. He slipped his robotic hand over the Sniper's head, tossing his hat across the room. It wasn't long before that head full of downy hair was back on his shoulder, breath low and hot on his collarbone. Even with the good doctor's work done, the Engineer could feel his practical heart crumble and break.
This...this is too awesome for words. Continue this or continue your other stories, so long as you continue because your work just brightens my whole day. You write the characters so real, yet so consistent. This is a great piece of fluff, I'm addicted.
>>1 You. Author-person. Never stop with your fantastic writing.
This is a pretty dark piece of fluff, which is really nice, and very fitting to the canon itself. The nightmare is particularly well-done, since it has a genuinely dreamlike quality to it. And I'm of the camp that loves Sniper being a reader, so that was a detail I loved. left alone in his van for hours I remember that fic, but now I can't find it. Do you remember where it is?
This is awesomeness incarnate.
>>4 It's called "Debuggen'." It was actually the first work I did for Team Fortress 2. I might as well post it here, non? Let's cycle back. /***/ Sanity, for the Engineer, lay cradled in the boughs of repetition. Every night was built of the same activities. Performing tune-ups on vehicles, emptying his guns, counting shells, the occasional gambling and inevitable losing of bets to the Soldier and the Scout over the next day's baseball game, checking up on the computer network—so on and on. He, in a way, became his own machine. If everything clicked and moved in a mechanical fashion, he would be one happy camper. Everything would cycle, the script would run out, and he would go to bed content. Perhaps that was why he didn't notice the problem in the first place. It started with a little buzz in his ear, no more so than radio static. Just a routine action the servers were taking, transistors firing up, tape whirling in wheels, the printer firing off a new line of data. Maybe that was why it didn't bother him—the machine was being, for the lack of a better word, mechanical. Every sixty seconds, it would kick on, buzz, and shut back off. The Engineer rubbed his forehead, tracing a hole long since repaired. Darned Spy. If it weren't for this machine, he'd still have a gap in his head that a child could stick his grubby hands through. The memory lingered, heat and lead severing synapses so fast that it almost didn't hurt. Almost. The thought that he would be dead in any other circumstance made him sick. Thank God for this machine. Whirr. Click. Buzz. He sniffled, brushing away the memory for a moment. It smelt hot. Not like hot electronics hot, either. Like something trapped under the burner. It couldn't be the Pyro, could it? He'd—she'd—it'd never hung around the server room before. The engineer traced the smell to the eighth compartment in the row of servers. He pulled the cover back. Whirr. Click. Buzz. There was a set of white, tiny wings. A moth had gotten trapped in the components. The Engineer pulled it out, body mostly fried from the heat inside the cabinet. Dammit. It looked like the bug had fried out some of the machinery. He pulled the wrecked component out. A punch-card reader. He opened the reader up, finding a damaged card within it. Whirr. Click. Buzz. The Engineer lifted his head, eyes wide. It was, more or less, a diagnostic sample. The picture of a person in good health. The reason the regenerating servers worked. It would take this card, copy its instructions, and recreate the person's body in perfect form, placing them back in a safe area with an X, Y, and Z coordinate. Naturally, this included all of BLU's safe houses and the main complex. Whirr. Click. Buzz. It was still running. The servers had the memory of this card active, and it was using it as a template. A defective template. Blood burned under the Engineer's skin, his mind ablaze with indignation. It was creating somebody over and over again, only to have them require a new revival—a constant process of death. He pitched the card aside, bolting to the printed data running in spirals down to the floor. How hadn't he noticed this? He stopped for a moment, reading what the machine told him. The number seven. A series of X Y Z coordinates. A timestamp for the activity. Whirr. Click. Buzz. The Engineer counted off in his head. One , two, three—no, wait. Computers started at zero. He started again, ticking off his fingers as he though. Zero, one, two—oh God. He didn't even have to count. He knew who could have gone hours without being seen after a match. With a flustered hiss, he sped out of the server room, slamming and bolting it shut behind him. He ran to the team garage, picking up his toolbox, a medkit, and a handful of scrap metal. The desert night was cold and rough. Dust stung his face. He could have done without the wind biting at his exposed skin. Thank God for his goggles. He pushed through the turbulence, rushing to the west end of the BLU encampment. With a cough, he expelled the sand from his lungs. Time was dragging out into seconds, and he flinched every time he thought a minute had gone by. This had to be hell. Sixty revives an hour, six hours since the last match— Blood. A thin trail started nearly twenty feet from the Engineer's destination. Bless his soul, he'd tried to get help. Always died in the same place, his body gone within seconds. Always regenerated back in his van. A Sisyphean toil. His skull throbbed, the pain from today's skirmish fresh in his head. Three hundred and sixty times. That had to have been hellish. The Engineer stepped under the awning of the camper. The door was ajar. Trickling down the ladder into the camper was a thick, congealed mix of sand and blood. He could taste iron and copper in the back of his throat. His stomach churned in anguish, prepared to expel the contents of tonight's supper. He knew it was going to be a nightmare. One time, back at home, there had been a flash flood. The sewer had backed up into the basement, contaminated water floating about an inch off the ground. That disgusting memory of tromping around in filth was now replaced with the sensation of stepping into a flood of mostly tacky blood. The ratty carpet stuck to his heels, sinking him further into the gore. Dozens of gallons of it oozed around his ankles and out the door. "Sniper?" God, that sounded stupid. Ask the perpetually dying man to talk. There was a ratty cough from the left side of the camper. The Sniper was lying on his stomach, hacking blood into the fold-out sofa. His back was ripped open, torn apart by a savage slash to his spine. A thin line of scarlet trickled down his nose and cheek. He kept his right arm tucked under his body, trying to keep a third injury from spilling his guts out. In a sick twist of thoughts, the Engineer wondered if he should have gotten the Medic just to see this. The Sniper's head jolted up with the same fear and ferocity of a hunted beast. He smiled, blood gushing down his lips. "Here…so…soon?" Another spasm of pain wracked through him, followed by another wet cough. He buried his nose into the couch, fresh blood smearing across the tip. "Don't go wasten' yer breath." The Engineer was quick to throw down his tools, cracking open the medkit. Several teal vials of fluid jingled at his touch. He cracked open the first bottle, pouring it into the Sniper's back. The Sniper jumped at the cold sensation. The gunk had an icy burn to it, but the numbing feeling and juniper smell that came with it redeemed the initial pain. The Engineer could feel it freeze against the tips of his fingers. "There was a malfunction with the regenerator. It took a bad copy of ya and made it yer default state." The Sniper laughed, gripping tighter to his sides. "How?" "Darn bug got caught in the server." He flipped the Sniper over, dumping another bottle of gel into the wound on his stomach. The Engineer rolled most of the gunk around with the palm of his left hand, pushing it into the jagged slash. With a soft hiss, flesh sealed back up. He took one more bottle and smeared the contents onto his right, gloved hand. He pressed his thumb into the Sniper's face, wiping the last injury. The Sniper's expression lost tension, and for a moment, the Engineer feared that he was going to be recycled again. He sighed when he realized that it wasn't the Sniper dying, but just unwinding. The Sniper nearly went under then and there. That wouldn't do. The Engineer tapped the side of his face, keeping him from going completely under. "Ain't time for that. Right now, we've gotta git ya a new template." The Engineer extended his hand. "Kin ya walk? I could build ya a dispenser, if ya need it." The Sniper's grasp was firm. It wasn't as strong as the Engineer first remembered it, but it was okay. He pulled the Sniper off his sofa. Long legs were weak, but he kept himself upright without too much support. Never the less, the Engineer loaned his shoulder, and the Sniper took it. The height difference between the Engineer and his teammates always made him feel miniscule, especially now with the Sniper hunched over. "Let's go, mate." The Sniped smirked, eyes almost disappearing under heavy lids. "I think I can make it now." They pushed through the front door. The raging wind felt like nothing now. The Engineer led the way with a new vigor, half dragging the Sniper behind him. He hoped to God that nobody from Team RED was stalking them. His skin chilled at the thought. The Spy had the better of both of them today. All it would take was one slice. One shot. He just had to get the Sniper to the garage. He covered his mouth with his shirt sleeve, pulling the Sniper through the last part of the trek. The Sniper picked up after a few moments, barking with laughter at the sprint. The Engineer shook his head—too much blood loss. An enormous wash of adrenaline hit him as he entered the garage. He flung the Sniper to the ground, pulling the door shut behind them. With his own hoarse chuckle, he slid to the floor. That was unnecessarily terrifying. The Sniper reached up and locked the garage door. "Just in case?" "Yep." The Engineer patted the Sniper's leg. "Come on. Let's git ya that template." They made their way to the server room at a significantly slow clip than their mad dash outside. The Engineer noticed that the Sniper had lost his burst of energy. The realization—the recollection of his trauma—it was starting to hit him. He held a hand to his stomach, wincing as they walked along. There had been so much pain. After a while, it had all washed together. But now that he had the time to contemplate it, each event cycled in his head. His face went stoic and cold. "Sniper." He jumped when the Engineer touched his shoulder. The Engineer swallowed, a hard lump in his throat. "I'm sorry this happened ta ya. I won't let it happen again." "Let's get it fixed, yeah?" The Sniper asked. He was doing his best to suppress what had just happened, but the pain was there, etched in the wrinkles under his eyes and the wound across his face. "Whadda we gotta do?" "This'll be real easy. Takes about a minute." The Engineer unlocked the server room. He led the Sniper inside, sitting him down against a row of humming machines. He went back to the damaged server and reloaded the card reader with a fresh, blank card. Sliding it back into place, he was pleased to hear it join the chorus of unanimous humming. Within a minute, there was a series of clacking and punching. Whirr. Click. Buzz. The Engineer went to the printer and studied the new information. He sighed. "Well, outside of a few new scars, I'd say this took well." The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "That's it?" He shook his head, "Why'd ya need to bring me out here?" "I wanted ta make sure ya were alive and relatively healthy when I reset yer template." The Engineer leant the Sniper a hand again. He began poking at the Australian's chest. "Now, I think that ya've spent enough time in that stinken' van. Ya ain't gonna get that thing cleaned up tonight. Might as well go on down to the Medic's quarters, let him give you the once over, and catch some zees on a cot." "Of all the places I'd rather not go tonight, it's ta that mad quack's digs." He rubbed his back, the cold medicine still tingling. "I…guess ya won't be taken' no for an answer." "Not at the moment." The Engineer pulled the Sniper out the door and down the hall. "This way, if ya please." There were a few quiet moments of silence where neither man wanted to talk. The Sniper had his head down, lost in dark thoughts. The Engineer kept to himself, not sure what to say. There was only one thing he could think of, in the meantime. He ran through a checklist in his head, re-evaluating his routine. He'd need to add a few new tasks to his routine. Daily data back-ups and a nightly roll call, for starters. Maybe purchase a few fly traps to put in the server room. There had to be something better than punch cards that they could use. "Dell?" The Engineer almost stopped, startled by the awkwardly meek, personal address. "Yeah, Mister Mundy?" There was that imperfect, half crooked smile again. "Thank ya." Dell patted Mister Mundy on the back. "Yer welcome, ya gangly varmint." /***/ "It's called a floppy disk." The Administrator gave the Engineer a piercing glare. "That's obscene." /***/
beautiful. love it. every single word, and detail. i cant wait for more.