Stupid holiday - stupid court dates -- Normally, for the engineer, those machines that he had painstakingly designed, precision-fabricated and assembled were distraction enough from any of those pesky personal troubles. The guns would be back up in no time at all, tirelessly and efficiently pumping bullets into anything from BLU company that made the mistake of getting too close. In addition, the defeated BLU occupation left a veritable treasure trove of abandoned equipment lying around that missile silo that they had poorly disguised as a distillery. Of course, for each downed turret, he had to run back to his shop for supplies of ammunition and spare parts. He figured that he might as well make it one trip of it if he hauled that busted teleporter back with him. Poor thing looked like it had been stomped on by an elephant, but the metal could still be salvaged. The walk unfortunately let his mind wander back to sharing space with the soldier. Of course, he enjoyed it. But one also enjoys getting drunk. That spontanious whirlwind of intimacy and passion was something that came from a lapse in the engineer's strength of will. Hell, they even went their separate ways after the deed – returning to their respective bunks and starting the next day as they had started every day previous. Then the dumb son of a bitch went and told everyone that they had gay sex like they were in some kind of relationship, and now all the other men knew that he was a queer, and it was quickly dissolving their respect for him; respect that he had to bust his balls to earn because of his short stature and his lack of head hair. He should have just let the man be. He tried to bring himself back down to the job at hand – but honestly, there was nothing to consciously think about – this was routine. He had salvaged metal and erected machines day in and day out for innumerable weeks and months – something that would be nearly impossible for anyone else, but he just had to be a genius and be able to solve all these problems of strategy and resource in his sleep. He was good at his job, and he prided himself in it, but now it felt like nothing at all. He couldn't bury himself in it like he could before with the weight of his mistake bearing down so heavily. He envied the soldier – who didn't appear to have the need to negate practical problems in order to protect himself – rather, he completely rejected reality and substituted his own. He began to wonder where the soldier went, and hoped that he wasn't too broken up about the way he blew him off for the sake of reinforcing his masculinity to the rest of the team. Dammit, he was thinking about the soldier again. All he had to do was salvage this equipment and report back. He hoped that Ms. Pauling would keep the debriefing on the topic of that clusterfuck of a battle, maybe fill him in on what happened to this teleporter before he re-spawned, but knowing that administrator, his unprofessional discretion was bound to come up in the worst way possible. The engineer pondered shooting himself in the foot just so that he would have something better to worry about. Back at the base, the hum of the ventilation overpowered any sound of the minimal staff's activity in the expanse of the complex. The engineer's workshop was adjacent to the incinerator room, and so as he drew closer, he noticed that the familiar smell of burning bodies had another element in it that he hadn't smelled in a long time. The door was still open, the otherwise dimly lit room glowing with the orange fire of the incinerator. The pyrotechnitian had apparently finished his job early as well – the heavy weapon's specialist must have lent a hand, since he had over turned that bloody wheel-barrow that was typically used to haul carcasses, and was leaning on it, catching his breath and mopping his brow on his sleeve. Across the red spattered expanse of lenolium tile leading up to the incinerator, the pyro stood in front of the 4-inch thick glass window of the incinerator door, very quiet, his uncovered, slicked black hair an indication that he didn't plan on returning to the outside, smoking a cigarette, and supposedly staring at the burning bodies inside. The engineer hoped that he could sneak past them on his way to the shop without incident, but the heavy weapon's guy seemed to have a sixth sense about his surroundings, and twisted around to face him in an instant. “Privet, malysh!" the big man was sweaty and droopy eyed as usual, but his cheeks were rosey and he had an odd sloppy cheerfulness about him that was not exhibited outside of battle. He was cleary drunk, and he must have been forgeting to speak english. "Prihodite! Syadʹte s nami, tovarishch!" He extended one of his huge arms and beconned him to sit down on a wooden crate next to them. "Uh... howdy there, big fella. Ah'd love to stay an chat, but Ah got some work to do yet..." the engineer grinned nervously, held up his armful of twisted metal and nodded toward the door to his shop, not even a yard away. "OH, COME OFF IT, Ya big fat LEHDEH! Ah got a bone ta pick wid yew!" the demolition slurred. He had apparently been there the whole time, sitting on the floor behind a large spool of steel cable. "Ah feel a song coomin on, annis bloody thing soonds like a wet cat bein slapped against a washboord!" he held the engineer's guitar aloft by the neck in one hand. "Now what in the hell are you doin with mah gui-tar?!" the engineer dropped the broken teleporter angrily and speeded towards the group. He snatched the instrument from the demolition's hand and inspected it carefully. "Aw, what did you do to her?! The strings are all loose! Ah oughta learn you a thing or two about respectin' another man's property!" The engineer quickly re-tightened the strings, absently seating himself on that wooden crate next to the heavy. "HEY! Gallo! How you doin?!" the pyro always had the whitest smile, and his brown eyes were rarely open any wider than a squint. Now the smell hanging in the air was ringing a lot more bells. "Good, partner. How bout yourself?" the engineer was still a might nervous about looking the pyro face to face after what had been seen. He absorbed himself in twisting the tuning pegs and minding the tension of the metal strings. It must have been the loco weed that made the pyro think that the engineer was still worthy of being called a rooster in spanish. "Much better now!" he cheesed and held up the half-smoked joint pinched between his fingers. "Take a hit, you look like you need it, mang!" he offered. "Well, if yer gonna twist mah arm." The engineer smiled and carefully took up the offer without hesitation. This small gesture of friendship was enough to lighten the load of worry – it was good to know that, at least for the moment, the pyro didn't care about what he saw earlier. That, and the engineer really wanted to wind down, despite the impending meeting with the exec's. "Thanks, partner." "Hey, it's all good!" The pyro shrugged. He watched the engineer take a long, smooth hit off the reefer, expertly hold it for more than a few second, then release it gracefully without so much as a tick. "Madre mi dios, Gallo! You hit that like a pro!" "S'been a while." the engineer leaned back slightly as he handed the joint back, his head already starting to swim in the smoke billowing from his mouth and nose. "With the number of years Ah spent in college, statistically there was no way to avoid bein' exposed to a wide managerie of illicit substances. Less juss say that mah 'higher' education referrs to more than just eleven PHD's." He stummed the guitar once, testing the sound. It was still a little off, so he went for the pegs again. "An' you know how Ah am about tryin' new things for the sake of science!" "Did you take notes?" the pyro joined him in a chuckle, a new cloud of smoke forming around him as he passed the joint back.. "Actually Ah did – of course, once Ah came down from the effects Ah couldnt read most of 'em. Those were the days, Ah tell you what." the engineer held the joint in his mouth for a second while he stummed the guitar again, this time the sound was right where it needed to be. He took another hit. Those really were the days; away from home there was no distraction from his studies, and he was free to experiment in just about anything without shame, or worry about accidentally shooting up the barn again. He passed the joint back and started playing his usual low, steady tune. He did it almost to drown out the onset of the memories of what happened after he returned home. “The burn was big wi' spate And there cam tumblein' doon, Topsalterie, the half of a gate An auld fish-hake, and a great muckle skate, And a lum hat wantin' th' croon – PLAY IN TUNE, YA BASTARD!†the demolition had a lovely baratone when he wasn't yelling and shaking people. “HEY! Ah will play what Ah wanna play, WHEN AH WANNA PLAY IT, you got that?!†The engineer angrily shoved the demolition off and pointed a scolding finger at him. “Don't fret, boyo! There's no need to shout!†the demolition threw his hands up sloppily, looking rather defeated. “Davaĭte petʹ “Katyushaâ€!†the heavy chimed in . “Ah don't even understand what you juss said!†the engineer turned his angry finger to the huge drunk bear standing in front of him. “Act like you got some god-damned sense, bwah!†The engineer huffed and returned his attention to the instrument on his lap. His thoughts again returned to the soldier, but now it didn't seem quite as wrong as it did before he started smoking. He at least still had the sense to avoid directly bringing it up, even though he was now almost totally consumed by the persistant image of the man's eyes. That telling, needing look that just tugged at him like a wayward child. “Shoot. Ah don't know that many songs, so Ya'll are just gonna have to sit with it. Lemme at that whiskey, son.†He knew he had to fill that awkward silence with something. He reached for the demo's bottle, and the demo obliged. He took a swig off of it and handed it back after shaking off the heat and wiping off his mouth on his sleeve. “Thanks, buddy. Ah git nervous singin' in front of people. Ya'll can sing along if ya know this one.†The battle-weary trio watched curiously as the engineer started off with that steady strumming again, figuring that the old Hank Williams was the most familiar to his compatriots. In all this time RED's company mercenaries had worked together, the engineer had played that guitar, but had never actually sung in front of the rest of the group. This didn't matter that much to him at all right now; he just needed to fill the air while he tried to get some enjoyment out of this calm before the storm. “Hear that lonesome whippoorwill He sounds too blue to fly The midnight train is whining low I'm so lonesome I could cry...†He didn't care if he was in key, or why he couldn't think of anything less damning; he had recently decided that nothing mattered. The other men exchanged some questioning looks, but it was unclear if they were thrown off by the song itself or the engineer's rusty singing voice. At the instrumental refrain, he just did his best to ignore them and play. It didn't quite sound the same without the steel, but he figured that it didn't matter either. “I've never seen a night so long When time goes crawling by The moon just went behind the clouds To hide its face and cry...†It just came out; this song that he originally learned playing along with the crackling old radio back in Tiny Bee Cave now resonated a little deeper than it did then - even than when it played muted, but almost knowingly as he first observed the soldier doing his compulsive one-person drills in the yard just outside his shop all those months ago. Every minute since then, he was both teased with further prospects, and tortured by them. “Did you ever see a robin weep When leaves began to die? That means he's lost the will to live I'm so lonesome I could cry.†He knew that the soldier wanted to follow him to bed last night. But he pushed him back anyway. Even after all that. His logic then was to keep up the professional dynamic of the team – wanting desperately to avoid creating a monster. But the soldier quickly made this good-ol-boy realize that, despite his education and his hard knocks, he didn't really comprehend the true definition of a monster. A monster was the group of once-close boyhood friends that beat him up when they found out about his disinterest in girls, and how quickly word spread and ended up costing him his job of ten years. A monster was that burning cross in his folks front yard, and the incessant taunts, fights, and property damage from the only people his whole life. A monster was what he became just before he shot up his best friend and the watering hole that everyone in the town frequented. What was unfolding now was nothing compared to that. This multinational team that he barely knew outside of work was far more compassionate than people he thought he knew his whole life – just because they didn't care. And that soldier – now he was all the engineer could think about. He struggled to keep his voice from cracking “The silence of a falling star Lights up a purple sky And as I wonder where you are I'm so lonesome I could cry.†Once he finished, he noticed that the pyro and the demo were seated in front of him like they were listening to the gospel at sunday school – not a dry eye between them.