>>142 Thanks! I'm glad the length of this thing hasn't scared people away from looking at it, I kind of scratch my head when I open it up on the computer and see how many pages my word processer says I've racked up... I've been struggling to apply myself to anything for the past few days, but here's a short vignette. As always, thanks go to my beta reader D.F. 38, for helping me make this make sense, and also to my usual suspect for putting up with me while I've been actively losing my shit. ______________________________________ Like many of the RED Company's mercenary employees, Heavy had become accustomed to many things about his work—the abandonment of his real name, the grievous injuries and deaths, the frantic rush to get back into the fray. He wasn't strongly religious, but sometimes he mused about the implications of frequent death and resurrection. When there was no work to be done and nothing to entertain himself with, he would just think to pass the time. Right now was one of those times. It had still been mid-morning in New Mexico when Heavy found himself, dazed and disoriented, in the respawn room at RED's Teufort base. Pyro and Medic were there as well, but no other mercenaries had followed them. It seemed that one way or another, their teammates were still alive in the Caribbean. A few harried phone-calls later, they discovered the only member of their cohort to come through so far had been Spy, and he had taken off on his own sooner than wait for company transport. Heavy felt more impressed than he would have admitted to learn that the Frenchman was devoted enough to hurry back on his own coin. Unfortunately, between Heavy, the acerbic German doctor and the mumbling mutant, not one of them was an international man of mystery with a knack for chatting up receptionists. Wheedling their way into first-class seats on the next flight from Sky Harbor to the Antilles was out of the question. But Heavy wasn't going to wait for every RED mercenary on the island to wind up in Teufort, and neither were his cohorts. This was how, after hours of travelling by rental car and air, they found themselves waiting for a connecting flight in Miami International Airport. Heavy had never been to Miami before, but as he sat on one of the terminal's countless benches—which were uncomfortably small for adults of any size, let alone the gigantic Russian—he supposed this didn't really count as a visit. His massive arms provided more comfortable support for his smaller teammates, both of whom were catching some badly needed rest. Medic in particular was beaten. He had done most of the haggling over the telephone and had driven them non-stop from the Badlands to Phoenix just so they could catch their connecting flight. Looking down at the older man, Heavy couldn't help but smile a little. (You're always hurrying, everywhere you go. Even when you're enjoying yourself, you seem to be in a rush. It's good to see you at rest.) Medic shifted unconsciously, and one of his hands tugged at Heavy's shirt, tightening into a fist around the fabric. He was usually a deep sleeper, but after the day's harrowing events, it seemed the best he could manage was to nap fitfully. Heavy frowned, feeling oddly lugubrious. Moving carefully so as to not awaken his companions, he lifted a hand to Medic's forehead and tried to smooth out the German's hair. Heavy was closer with Medic than any of his cohorts, both professionally and off the battlefield. Heavy's size and power were unmatched, and with Medic to keep him on his feet, the two men formed the backbone of the team. When harm befell the doctor, it was almost always under Heavy's watch. He sometimes felt dreadfully guilty, even if there was little he could do to stop a sniper's head-shot from striking or a knife from being driven into Medic's back. All the same, he was haunted by the memory of that axe-wielding mercenary they had encountered in the morning, the way that he’d rendered Medic’s intestines from his body like raw sausages. (I should have been faster,) Heavy thought, and clasped a hand protectively over Medic's shoulder. He was desperate to be back on the island, away from places where he had the chance to brood over such incidents. The flight that he was waiting for couldn't come soon enough. Taking an idle glance at his surroundings, Heavy noted that many of the other travelers were gawking at himself and his co-workers. Not that it bothered him. If anything, he was vaguely amused by the reactions he got from most Americans. (They'd probably be terrified if they heard me speak... or just assume we're with the Moscow Circus.) The thought was a lighthearted reprieve from brooding about his failures. Beside him, Pyro made a muffled grumbling sound and stirred. “Hww drmm hff hhd?†he asked, looking around. Heavy quietly contemplated how one man in a gas-mask drew stares, but a group of men in gas-masks would cause mass hysteria. After a moment of mulling over Pyro's question, he decided to just state the obvious. “Nothing is happened, ve have more time before the flight. An hour.†Pyro nodded and straightened himself up a little, freeing one of Heavy's arms. He fished a lighter out of his pocket and sighed wistfully, turning it in his hand. The little plastic device seemed to be his version of a security blanket, particularly at times and places when he couldn't have his flamethrower with him. “I know how you are feeling,†Heavy sighed, and patted Pyro's shoulder. “I vorry about Sasha vhen I travel. She alvays is stowed vith the luggage.†It was little comfort to Heavy that his mini-tat was simply too large for the ground crew to chuck around carelessly. (Sasha is a delicate piece of equipment. I hate letting her out of my sight,) he mulled. Pyro looked up at Heavy as he spoke. “Ha lff wrr hrrf pwwprr fr crrpmwwr... yrr frmm drrbffd, hrrfrr.†The rubber-suited man was difficult to understand at best and incomprehensible at worst, but he was the closest thing to conversation that Heavy had right now. After a few moments of confused silence, Heavy deciphered his cryptic statement- or made a reasonable guess, anyhow. “I am doing nothing interesting. Thinking about the fight, is all. Vhen ve found enemies this morning, Doktor vas almost killed. I should have fought harder. Fought smarter. I feel bad for letting that happen.†He didn't really know why he was telling this to Pyro. The fire-starter was a dedicated member of the team, someone who Heavy considered a good example for the rest of their teammates, both in his politeness and dedication. Unfortunately, there was language barrier that complicated any efforts they made to converse. The black lenses of Pyro's mask showed nothing of what lay beneath them. Pyro had tilted his head slightly as though he were pondering this. At least, that was Heavy's guess as to what was happening on the other side of that dark glass. “Hrr nrr hww yrr frrll. Hrr huddud hwn fprrf grrd prrf mrr.†He reached up with a gloved hand and gently patted the giant man's shoulder. “Hw lrrf yrr. Dwr ywrr pffd!†he added, gesturing towards the sleeping Medic. Heavy didn't have the heart to say how little of that he understood. As he looked at Medic, then the Pyro, he started to wonder how important words really were. Pyro's benign posture and gentle hand seemed to say more than a clear voice could. “I am glad he lives. Ve are lucky to be fighting this war, vhere mistakes can be made. Is best to be learning from mistakes. I vill fight better next time, vhen I see friend being attacked.†Pyro nodded, and studied his lighter with a longing sigh. Beside him, Heavy turned his gaze back to Medic, and felt himself smiling again. “I let you sleep until is time for the flight,†he murmured. “You vork so hard today, Doktor. But even you need rest. You lean on me, now.†Medic did not wake, but he relaxed somewhat, loosened his grasp on Heavy's shirt and sank down against his partner's gigantic body. The expression on his face was unusually serene, the lines around his mouth and his eyes gently softened. Heavy felt a faint aching in his chest, and rubbed the older man's shoulder. He loved being around the man most when he was awake. Still, there was nowhere he wanted to be more at that moment than sitting in Miami International Airport, providing support for his sleeping doctor.