1 . Name: D.F. 38 @ 2012-10-25 18:49

Let's start celebrating Halloween early...

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A glass ball sat neglected and cob-webbed inside the fortune teller’s hut. Its surface was marred by scratches from vigorous cleaning, dust pulled against its once smooth surface. The ball was placed upon tattered, purple velvet, lined with gold trim and stars. It stayed alone and neglected for many years, greeted only by spiders and shadows. The trinket was long abandoned by its owner. It glowered in the dark like a shining eye, staring helplessly and without the faintest blink in over forty years.

Sunlight filtered into the abandoned fortune teller’s stand. Two men stood in its cracked-open doorway. They were broad shouldered, brazen folks. The first of the two to enter was taller than his companion, his one lone eye staring into the glass sphere on the table. He pursed his lips, but did not shy away. He took two steps into the building before being overtaken by his friend. The shorter of the two stomped around the hut, helmet swaying as he searched through its contents. The taller man sighed. His companion had no respect.

“Don’t ya be pokin’ yer nose too much, Jane. Ya never want ta mess around with magic items,” the Demoman scolded his friend.

The other man rolled his eyes. “Please. I lived with a magician. You know what I did when he started getting snippy with me? Busted his broom and threw his robes out on the lawn, that’s what! Magicians. What a bunch of hooey!”

“Feel what ya like, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the Scotsman replied.

“Duly noted, Degroot,” Jane grunted. He proceeded to start poking a monkey’s paw in the palm.

Both mercenaries wandered about the fortune teller’s hut. They had found it a few miles outside of the Harvest location after their last match. The immediate surrounding area had bits and pieces of an old circus left standing about. Tents. Attractions. Popcorn machines. Emptied animal cages. No one had been on the premises since the Nineteen Twenties. There was no reason for all of this clutter to still be around. Circuses never stayed put without good reason.

With new land to protect and fight over, orders had been given to clear the place out. Most of the place had been dismantled. Every piece of usable scrap metal was to be loaded into trucks and hauled out. A few toys had been tossed the Pyro’s direction, provided they weren’t too damaged by the weather. At least the desert had kept them mold-free. The Soldier and the Demoman had been assigned to dismantle the small fortune teller’s shop. Jane was all too eager to pull it apart. Tavish approached his work with more caution.

It was one thing to dismantle a lion’s cage. It was another to throw out Madam Fortuna’s old magical items. Or Lady Tyche. Doctor Marvel, Professor Acumen, the Purple Prognosticator—fortune tellers always had some peculiar title like that.

“You’re thinking pretty hard there, Tavish,” the Soldier grumbled. “Don’t tell me this place is giving you the heebie-jeebies.”

The Demoman shook his head. “No. Just sad is all. Some little old lady was just out here, tryin’ ta do her business, and then—well, whatever happened here got ta her.”

The Soldier shrugged. “You can’t feel bad for something that may or may not have happened. It’s just an empty old shack full of weird crap. Just think of it like that.”

“Doesn’t it freak ya out a bit?” the Demoman asked. He leaned over the glass sphere on the table, his one eye big and bright through its distortion. “I mean, here one day, ‘n gone the next.”

“That’s just how carnies operate,” the Soldier responded. He stepped towards the table in the center of the shack. The Demoman walked away from the front of the table, letting Jane get a good look at the ball. He snorted, then asked, “What’s this supposed to show you, anyway? Your future?”

The Demoman tapped a leather-bound book lying on the table. It was cracked open to the last place the fortune teller had read. He squinted in the dark light, struggling to read the fading text. It looked like Latin. Syntactically incorrect Latin, but close enough. The Demoman bluffed through some of the words, looking for items he recognized. His one good eye widened as he deciphered the text. “Apparently, this is some kinda phobia ball.”

“What’s that mean?” the Soldier squinted.

“Just supposed ta show ya yer fears,” the Demoman shrugged. “Not even a bloody spell. Just stare at it long enough, ‘n stares back at ya.”

The Soldier slammed his fist on the table. “A Nietzsche ball! I’ll be damned!”

The Demoman screwed up his face. “Not like that.” He bowed down to the crystal ball’s level. His one good eye swelled in the distortion of the glass. For a moment, the Soldier thought he saw the Demoman’s other eye through the ball. It wasn’t out of the question. The possessed eyeball was known to turn up from time to time during Halloween.

The Soldier frowned, then crossed his arms. Here was the Demoman, the man who had told the Soldier to stop screwing around with abandoned magical items, now with his nose pressed flat against a crystal ball. The Scotsman grumbled, drawn further into the ball’s spell. There was a flare in his iris. His face fell. The strength went out of his shoulders, posture folding and slumping like a wilting flower. The Soldier lifted an eyebrow, wondering what was going on in the Demoman’s head. He grabbed a wooden crate, then threw it behind the Demoman’s legs. The Scotsman descended as he kept his vision locked on the crystal ball.

It was a full minute before he snapped out of it. The Demoman pulled back, skin prickling. He gave a growl, then shook his head. “Bloody rubbish ball.”

“What did you see?” the Soldier asked.

“Same malarkey I always see.” The Demoman tried blowing off the ball’s visions. “Me mum disappointed in me. Upsetting the family lineage. The ol’ missing eye. Fairies.”

The Soldier laughed. “Fairies? What kind of pansy-ass phobias do you have?”

The Demoman barked. “Oy! Ye don’t go messin’ round with little bitty men that can hide yer stuff. It ain’t fun playin’ defuse the bomb with a bunch ‘a bloody sprites hidin’ yer stickies!”

“Fine. Whatever. Let me have a crack at that,” the Soldier smirked.

The Demoman backed up, then shrugged his shoulders. The Soldier leaned over the glass sphere, his nose huffing moist air across its surface. He focused his eyes on the center of the ball. He didn’t know quite what to expect. Rolling smoke, stars, little flashes of fire. Something magical, at any rate. All he could see in the crystal ball was the base that it sat upon. Just glass and ebony. Nothing special. Nothing worthwhile.

Nothing.

The Soldier’s patience wore thin. “Piece of crap.” He stood up, then strode away from the table. He growled, stomping as he made his way towards the center of the abandoned circus camp. What a waste of time! He thought he would have seen something concrete. Spiders. Zombies. Spider zombies. There was nothing in that sphere. Not like he couldn’t have seen that coming. Magic was a load of crap after all.

There was a scuff of shoes behind the Soldier. The American turned to find one of his fellow patriots. The young Scout, as it was. He was overenthusiastic as always, jogging circles around the Soldier as he spoke. “Yo, Helmet Head!”

“What kind of half-assed greeting is that?” the Soldier rebuked his companion. “If I would have addressed one of my superiors like that—”

“Prove to me dat you’re my superior, and we’ll talk, bruddha.” The Scout slowed his pace, nodding his head towards the horizon. “Sniper thinks we should get a move on. Something about a storm coming in.”

The Soldier laughed, his chuckles dry and hearty. “A storm? What, is the little princess afraid that a little rain will mess up his pretty hair?”

The Scout snorted. His laughs always came through the nose. The only other man the Soldier had ever heard laugh like that was the Spy. “Good one! But nah. Sandstorm. He’s gettin’ worried about drivin’ back.”

That could be an issue. The team had taken two vehicles to investigate the circus’ remains. Most of the team had bummed a ride off of the Medic, as he had the larger van. It made the Sniper’s living quarters in the back of his vehicle all the more pathetic. It wasn’t that either driver wouldn’t be able to make it back to base without the help of the other. It was just a pain to have to figure out where the other one had gone. For the team’s safety, it would be best to move out as early as possible.

“Fine, then. Round up the troops,” the Soldier ordered.

The Scout gave the Soldier a half-assed salute, then bounced off to find the rest of his teammates. The Soldier prickled his nose as the kid disappeared. What a hyperactive young man. He turned to face the storm front. It was rust colored, churning winds tearing loose sand and soil from the terrain. A sudden gust blew dust across his face. He growled, then turned away. It was at times like this that the Soldier appreciated having his helmet in his eyes.

He marched through the building storm to the closest vehicle. If he were a resourceful man, he would have found the Pyro and used him as an air blaster. Not that his eyes needed protection from the whipping winds. He crossed his arms, trying to keep his hands from being scratched up by the dust in the air. Those winds were something fierce. It was good that he had a warning to get back.

The Soldier found the Medic’s van without too much struggle. He plopped into the shotgun seat. Although he would have preferred driving, he was glad not to be operating his Jeep in this mess. The cabin was open to the elements, and it would take forever to clean out. It wasn’t long before his teammates joined him. The Engineer hopped into the backseat, his gloved hand covering his mouth. The Spy followed in turn, shaking out the dust from his suit. The driver’s side door swung open, and a bulky man flung himself inside. He coughed once, then started the van.

The Soldier shot the driver a strange look. “Why are you driving?”

“Because I have keys,” the Heavy replied.

That wasn’t a logic the Soldier could argue with. The van rumbled as the large Russian slipped the vehicle into drive. A shudder ran up the Soldier’s arms as the van moved forward. Something wasn’t right. The Heavy never drove this vehicle. He could barely fit into the driver’s side. Why would he have the keys?

Something wasn’t right.

“No. This isn’t your vehicle,” the Soldier grumbled. “Why would you be driving it?”

The Heavy’s eyebrows lowered. “I have keys. Keys go in van. I drive.”

“If this is your van, Ruskie, then where’s the driver’s manuals, huh? What about the insurance papers? Hell, do you even have a license to operate a vehicle like this?” the Soldier argued.

The Spy was growing impatient with the Soldier’s arguing. “For once, would you please stop zhis nonsensical banter? Zhere is always some fight with you!”

The Soldier crinkled his nose. Leave it to a Frenchman to cause a problem. “Look! We’re forgetting something, here. I’m not going to shut up about it until I figure it out.”

“Whad’ja think we forgot?” the Engineer asked.

A smile grew on the Soldier’s face. He could always count on the Texan to be reliable. “Come on. Think about it. We’re forgetting something.”

The Engineer threw a glance over his shoulder. All of their equipment was in order. Sentries, dispensers, and teleporter parts were bundled up in heaps in the backseat. There were rifles, shotguns, pistols, and all sorts of equipment neatly tucked away. Medical equipment was untouched. Nobody had been harmed that day, after all.

“Looks fine ta me,” the Engineer shrugged.

The Soldier frowned. “Are you positive?”

The Engineer gave a low sigh. “Look, Soldier. All of our equipment’s in the back.” He took a small portable radio from his pocket. “If we forgot somethin’, someone would be yellin’ at us on this thing. That good enough fer ya?”

Despite the Engineer’s offering, the Soldier was still not at ease. Still, the little walkie talkie would be active if something was wrong. If one of them needed help, then they’d call out on that. Someone would always yell at them on it, one way or another. He sat down, then crossed his arms. Damned if he would admit defeat, but he didn’t object as the Heavy finally pulled the vehicle onto the road.

There was nothing for him to worry about.

Red sand clawed around the speeding vehicle. Its dragging nails softly screeched as they pulled along. The Soldier slumped against the window, still fuming. Not pouting, no. Grown men didn’t pout. They got angry and punched wild animals in the face, but they did not pout. He grumbled to himself as the shrieking wind started tearing at his patience. He went silent when the turbulence roared.

The Soldier pressed his eyes against the windows of the van. He was a man of the Midwest. He was familiar with that lonesome howl, like a crying train lost in the dark night. That had to be a tornado! The Soldier went numb with panic. He had spent one too many evening in dark cellars, waiting for some rotten twister to sweep past his town.

He couldn’t risk losing his men in the storm.

With a sharp command, the Soldier bellowed, “Pull over! Into the ditch!”

The Heavy gave a long sigh. “What now?”

“Hear that? It’s a tornado.” The Soldier gave a curt explanation of his commands. “If we can’t get indoors, then we’ve got to get into a ditch. I can’t see any damn building. So, into the ditch!”

The Russian followed his demand. The van dipped into a pocket, then came to rest. It jostled as the winds howled stronger. The Spy cringed, slinking into his seat. The Engineer pulled his goggles back. He pressed his nose to his window, trying in vain to see something outside. Red winds built up, becoming dark brown as layers of soil were ripped upwards. He turned to his walkie talkie, fumbling with its controls. Meaningless static flooded the van.

“I hope zhis little tactic will not delay us for long,” the Spy murmured. There was a bite to his voice, but he was becoming cowed.

“We’ll stay as long as there’s roaring outside,” the Soldier replied.

The Heavy grimaced at the thought. He shifted in his seat. It truly was too small for him. The belt cut across his girth, pulling his gut in a few inches. He fumbled with the belt’s lock. When it sprang loose, he sighed. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, then rolled them in his fingers. The pads of his thumbs traced the key’s edges and the little charms decorating the ring. The Soldier watched his fingers flick through the key ring.

“Is getting darker,” the Heavy grumbled. “I am worried.”

The Engineer replied, his voice choppy over the static-choked radio. “Shouldn’t be too long. Assumin’ it’s moving out of our way, ‘a course.”

The Heavy shook his head. “Storm is not problem. It is like Soldier said. Is something I forgot.”

The Spy frowned. “It’s pointless to go back now. You will get caught in ze storm.”

“Is…is something important.” The Heavy squinted outside. The winds were nearly black now. They yowled and screamed like the chorus of the damned. A cold shiver prickled across his skin. The Soldier studied the Russian’s face as the iron-willed man melted. Color ran from his face. His eyes went ice-cold. There was a fluttering in his breath. He stopped rotating the keys in his hand, his thumb landing on a pewter cross.

It was at that very moment that the Heavy had remembered something that the Soldier could not. He jammed the keys back into the ignition. The Russian tried turning the keys three times. Each time, the van fought him. The column remained locked in place, the van dead in the black storm. Of course the van would not start. It was not his to drive.

The Heavy tossed the van’s keys onto the dash. “Stay here.”

The Russian flung his door open. Ebony winds snapped and bit at his massive arms. The Soldier reached over, grabbing onto the Heavy by his bandolier. His tugging did no good. The storm pulled the Heavy out of the van, as if he were made of nothing more than fluff and air. It slammed the van’s door shut once more. The Soldier cursed, then locked the door.

There was nothing else he could do.

The three men didn’t react. They sat in the dark, letting the radio’s static and the wind’s crying eat away at them. The Spy gave the Engineer an evil eye. He wanted to sap the thing so that it would finally be quiet. He reached for the device, prepared to pitch it outside. As soon as his fingers touched the walkie talkie, the radio went still. All three men turned to face the confused Engineer.

“That piece of crap isn’t out of juice, is it?” the Soldier asked.

The Engineer shook his head. “No. I just charged the dang thing. What’s it—”

A bright light flashed on the top of the device. It flickered like a dancing candle. Its tuning wheel churned, moving of its own accord. It slowly ascended through radio frequencies, searching for a new noise. Nothing came out of it. The Soldier huffed, frustrated with the failing technology. It probably wasn’t the Engineer’s fault. The Spy must have infected it with gremlins when he touched it.

The Soldier huffed. “Might as well just turn the damn—Truckie? What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t recall a time when he’d seen the Engineer cry. The Soldier saw tears swim in the Engineer’s eyes, the radio’s light dancing in his vision. There were faint stars in his eyes. Five lights shined in each pupil, a comforting symbol the Soldier didn’t recognized. It was Southern, like the Engineer, and it led the lost, though its name didn’t cross his mind.

The Engineer opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was devoid of sound. He cracked, memories singing in his head. He couldn’t hear sound coming from the radio, but it pleaded with him. Its cries burned through his brain like an exploding bullet. The constellation in his vision broke the Engineer’s reason. Without thought, his robotic hand clutched onto the van’s door. He gave it a mighty squeeze.

The Texan flung himself outside, and the world went silent.

There was the Spy. The Soldier knew that much. There was a storm, though he couldn’t see or hear it. There were keys in the front of the van, though he didn’t know how they got there. Supplies were in the back, though he didn’t know how to use most of them. The world was dimming. All he could see was the paleness of the Spy’s face in the dark night.

Was it even night?

The Soldier opened his lips to speak, but no words came out. The Spy opened his mouth too. His face was pale, eyes and teeth slick with moisture. He was stricken with some strange spell. He smiled, then frowned, then glared, then wept. All of the muscles in his face moved. He held every expression, possessed every feature. He chattered away, noiseless and formless. He reached for his left wrist, his lips repeating some mantra over and over again. The Frenchman pressed his thumb down, and his body lost its form to the void. He disappeared from sight as the stealthy cloak swathed his ever-changing face.

He was, then he was not.

The Soldier stared at the backseat. No one was there. He turned to the front. There was no driver. He looked outside. There was no ground, no sky. He hummed. No sound. He rubbed his hands together. No feeling. He thought of his home. What home? Where was he? What was he doing here? Why was he waiting? What was outside? Why didn’t he go out there?

He placed a hand on the van’s door handle. Whose van was this, anyway? His? He patted himself down, searching for keys. There weren’t any in his pockets. Where could they have gone? The Soldier looked behind him once more. Darkness flanked his backside. He glanced towards the driver’s seat. It dropped through emptiness, falling into an endless void. The vehicle folded around him, peeling and melting into the abyss. He didn’t hear it crunch into a million pieces or crash at the bottom of some pit. There was a glimmer of light as a key ring tumbled off the disappearing dashboard. He didn’t see where it went. His seat flew away, dropping from beneath him. He didn’t feel it go.

The Soldier was not a man who fretted. A man who couldn’t die had nothing to fear. No matter what killed him, he would come back to life. He did his job well, so he didn’t fear losing it. He didn’t particularly care what others thought of him, so he didn’t fear shame from any individual. He wasn’t afraid of losing life nor limb, did not loathe any particular monster, and had no grand phobia. When it came to fear, he spat in its eye.

Something was eating at him, though.

His senses were lost. His body was meaningless in this void. It didn’t matter if he moved or if he stayed still. He simply was there, and the universe around him was not. All thoughts in his head were just chatter. He couldn’t die, so he couldn’t be afraid. It was the terms of his job. His occupation had become his name. He was the Soldier.

Soldiers didn’t fight alone, though. He knew that. Soldiers were the ones that did the dirty, general work. Soldiers didn’t have to worry about anything but the mission. Kill, or die. That was the line of a Soldier’s work. While they were strong, they were not invincible. They had wounds that needed tending. They had their personal weapons to care for. They couldn’t hold all guns, though. Soldiers needed other men, too. Men to carry what little he could not, men to pluck out the riskiest targets, men to fix machines, men to gather intelligence and secure locations. A soldier did not operate alone. A soldier needed a team.

He was the Soldier, and he was alone. That was wrong.

The Soldier balled his fists, then punched against his helmet. Where was his team? Did he abandon them? He would never have been so treacherous! He sought their faces in the back of his mind. He couldn’t see them in the empty void. He knew they were out there, somewhere, and that they needed his help. If he could recall their faces and tasks, he knew he’d have something to fight for.

He needed someone, something, but had no one and nothing.

That was it.

A glowing sphere flared in the Soldier’s mind. He watched it spin, glossy and smooth. He reached out for it. It was cold in his hands, icy chills shooting through his fingers. Trembles of noise grew into rumbling roars in his ears. He saw visions in the globe. Vehicles were being torn from the road, tossed every which way. Thick men were stomping through gales, voices louder than the screaming winds. Others sat curled in fright. The storm washed over their backs.

The Soldier’s eyes widened. His men were out there. Those that were strong were wrestling against the razor-sharp fangs of the cyclone. Those that couldn’t fight the wind cried out for help. There was fear in their eyes. He felt that cut into his skin. He had nothing to fear. His death meant nothing. His men feared for the well-being of their fellow troops. It was irrational, but their terror stirred a fire in his gut.

He remembered each and every name, his brain whirling. The Spy had last been in the van. He’d faded into nothing, unable to keep his form in the face of this maddening storm. The Engineer and Heavy had left him to go back, led through the storm by mere symbols. Where had he left the Pyro? How about the Medic? God, they’d stolen his van. The least the Soldier could do to make amends was rescue him. What about the Sniper? Had he lead the other team to his van? The Scout—he’d last been seen at the circus, hadn’t he? And the Demoman—

The Soldier snapped his head up. That was whom he had forgotten.

He found his last missing teammate in front of his nose. “So? What did ya see?”

The Soldier gawked, mind flustered. He leapt off of a box. His knees collided into a table, a glass sphere bouncing from the impact. The Midwesterner couldn’t believe it. He was back in the fortune teller’s hut, the same webbing dripping down from the ceiling. Sunlight was streaming from the front passage. If there had been a storm, it had long since passed.

He spun back, staring in awe at the Demoman’s face. The Soldier bit down, regaining his bravado. “Nothing.”

“That’s a load a crap!” the Demoman exclaimed.

“Told you. I have nothing to fear,” the Soldier beamed.

The Demoman rolled his one good eye. He slapped his forehead. “You bloody well saw something. You nearly fell on yer arse! ‘N ya want me ta believe that ya saw nothing?”

The Soldier back-tracked on his lie. “Well, there was a storm. And you were there. But so was everyone else, so don’t get any wise ideas.”

“Right,” the Demoman snorted.

“Anyway. In the end, you all disappeared, and I saw nothing. So, there. Like I said.” The Soldier flicked one of the Demoman’s grenades. “I fear nothing.”

The Scotsman didn’t buy his answer. He gave another long snort, then scratched his moustache. “Bunch ‘a crock.”

The Soldier grinned. “Now you know how I feel about magic.”

The duo gave the hut one last going-over. There really wasn’t anything salvageable. True, a phobia ball made for an interesting curio. Not like that was going to help them win their fights. Not unless the Engineer figured out how to weaponize it, or if the Demoman could replicate it and use it like a grenade. The fabric on the table was too worn and frail to be used for scrap rags. At first, the Demoman thought he’d found leftover gemstones. Upon further inspection, he discovered that they were plastic imitations. He pocketed them anyway. At the very least, they would make for interesting hat decorations.

As the two left the hut, the Demoman asked, “Seriously? Nothing?”

“Yes,” the Soldier replied.

The Demoman shook his head. “Least you could do was have a proper, decent fear.”

The Soldier shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like it when you all are scared.” He corrected himself, summoning more of his bravado up. “You all fight like crap when you are afraid. For God’s sake. If you can’t die, what’s the point of being scared of getting hurt? Bunch of screaming babies.”

A shriek went up through the circus. Both the Soldier and the Demoman stopped. There was a rapid patter of feet as the Scout went scrambling around a dilapidated tent. He dove towards the Soldier, bolting face-first into his uniform. The Soldier raised an eyebrow. It was a rare day that the Scout showed any fear.

“Private, there had better be a reason you have your face smashed into my chest,” the Soldier grumbled.

The Scout hopped back, suddenly grossed out. “You guys gotta come quick! Oh, man, it’s bad. So bad! I mean, guh!”

“Want ta try speakin’ English, Lad?” the Demoman asked.

Words spilled out of the Scout’s mouth in unending torrents. “Okay. Okay! So, da Pyro found dis nest or somethin’ in the back ‘a the big top, right? And he goes to tell da Medic, but this thing—oh, man! And it bit da Spy, and now his face is all swollen up like da fatty’s. And da Sniper went in to fight it—well, dem—but he got all tangled up and now the Engineer’s trying to get a sentry set up and he had a dispenser going, but dat got stomped flat and da Heavy and da Pyro are outta ammo and—”

The Soldier stopped the Scout’s rambling. “Son, get to the point.”

The Scout pointed towards the largest tent in the camp. Parts of it were on fire, smoke billowing into the sky. “Spiders. Giant. Need killed. Now!”

“Cool,” the Soldier smiled. “Are they zombies too?”

The Scout shook his head. “What? No! Come on!”

The Soldier shrugged. One day, he’d get his chance. In the meantime, fighting off a clutch of run-of-the-mill giant spiders would have to do. He threw the Demoman a cheeky grin. “Not going to chicken out on me, are you?”

“Hell no!” the Demoman replied.

The Soldier gave him one more smirk, then pointed his rocket launcher at his feet. With one mighty explosion, he flew into the sky. He cackled wildly, bouncing aside sturdy and rickety tents as he went. He leapt into the Medic’s healing beam. With another pounce, he crashed through the smoldering tent. It wasn’t long before his laughter and explosions rang out.

Even in a monster’s lair, he had nothing to fear.