One, Zero, Five, Hellpoint - Chapter 32 - Orbital_Obvious (2024)

Chapter Text

It could be that the unexplained coffee pot was just a figment of Jeremy’s imagination. Wasn’t this a side effect of sleep deprivation? Waking visions? Specifically visions of coffee pots.

Jeremy pointed at the coffee pot. “You are my mind’s own creation,” he told. His finger connected with the glass sides of the pot, and Jeremy’s hand recoiled with the scorching heat. f*ck. It was real. Of course, most coffee pots are real, on account of being physical objects n’ all, but most physical objects, coffee related or not, don’t just conjure out of thin air and appear on the kitchen counter. The thing had an air of mystery to it, if mystery smelt like freshly grounded coffee beans.

If the coffee pot was real - and the red and painful spot on Jeremy’s finger proved that it was - then someone had to put it on. Recently. Problem was, it was Saturday morning, six thirty AM, and no one on base would be making a fresh pot of coffee. Hell, all of them were still asleep.

Well, almost all of them - sans Jeremy, who was awake, and the reason Jeremy was awake, who was currently banging a fork over a sealed can of tomato soup.

Soldier would wake all of them at six thirty, AM, banging his shovel on a large pot he pulled out from who knows where. He did so every single morning. “Tis a mercy,” Demoman said, “used to bang ‘is pot as early as five in the mornin’.” Most days, everyone treated it like the morning alarm. When it came to weekends, though - well, as far as Jeremy understood, everyone developed some weekend sensitive instinct to just NOT LISTEN to things before seven AM. Everyone but Jeremy, of course, who developed nothing but an early onset of tinnitus.

Jeremy tried to shoot an angry stare at Soldier. The man ignored him. Soldier would ignore being shot a bullet to the face, let alone Jeremy’s moping. Jeremy stuck his tongue out. Soldier hit the can with the fork again.

This could go on forever. It would’ve, if Jeremy wasn’t so curious about the coffee pot. “Did you make this?” he asked Soldier.

With a grunt, Soldier moved his gaze towards the coffee pot. Solider always wore that two sizes too big helmet on his head, and it covered about half of his face. You had to guess where he was looking from the angle the helmet sat on his head. Eyes, it was said, are the windows to the soul; Soldier's helmet was the window to a brick wall of an emotional range.

Soldier took a long look at the coffee pot. “NO!” he declared, remembering, just then, that he didn’t, in fact, made the coffee. “I only drink canned coffee!” he threw the tomato soup can to the side - ignoring the alarming CLANG it made as it hit the floor - and produced another can, slimmer and a tad longer, with a large drawing of what could either be a coffee bean or the unborn fetus of Dracula. Underneath it was the logo for Mann Industries - a sure sign that whatever was in that can was not safe for human consumption.

“THIS is coffee, maggot!” Soldier called, “Americano! THE BEST COFFEE!,” he pushed the can at Jeremy’s face. “Lukewarm, bubbly coffee! GOD BLESS AMERICANO!”

“Uh, I don’t know, man,” Jeremy said, “I’m pretty sure coffee isn’t BUBBLY.”

“NONSENSE! THIS IS WHERE THE ENERGY IS!” The can was now pushed against Jeremy’s skin, and by god, was it lukewarm.

Jeremy swatted it away. “You should switch to decaf.”

“YOU SHOULD SWITCH TO KEEPING YOUR OPINION TO YOURSELF!”

“What? I always keep my opinion to myself. I’m, like, the KING of keeping my opinions to myself. I could mention your helmet is too big for your head. But do I ? N- “ Jeremy’s voice died on his lips. Since when did he talk so much? Those were - he used his finger to count - FOUR sentences. In a row. And there were more, just waiting to come out.

Jeremy bit his lips, like he did when he was a child. Biting his lips to keep them from moving. Biting hard enough to draw blood. He bit his tongue before that, until Miller told him he’s going to bite his own tongue off. Jeremy decided that between his tongue and his lips, he would rather lose his lips; and so, biting.

Urgh. Miller. The thought of the man made Jeremy’s skin crawl. He had to remind himself that this was a place where Miller doesn’t exist - not the Miller Jeremy knew, anyway. The man was a universe away. And yet…

And yet, at some point, Jeremy would have to return.

Sleep deprivation was getting to Jeremy. That was the only reasonable explanation to what was about to come out of his mouth. “Hey, Soldier,” said Jeremy, “I need your advice on something.”

Soldier stood in attention. “Your hair!”

“NO.”

Soldier's helmet leaned in one-hundred-point-suspicious-stare degrees. “HMMM. It’s getting too shaggy.” he rubbed his chin. “You better not start to make love and not war.”

Talking to Soldier is like standing in front of a fast approaching train. The train is off the rails, but it will STILL run you over. Jeremy had to rein this conversation in. “No, look, no chance I’m making any love soon,” he said, then, understanding what he said, he added- “no, f*ck. ok, scratch that. It’s not your business what I’m doing. I’ll shave my own hair. This isn’t about that.”

“HRMMMM.” Soldier hummed quietly, as silently and pleasantly as the sound of a malfunctioning jet engine.

“I need to kill a guy.” Jeremy said. “Big guy. I can’t snap his neck,” he added, hurriedly, “and hitting him with a shovel won’t hurt him, either.”

“Rocket launcher!”

“I can’t carry a rocket launcher. Also, pretty sure that by the time I get that thing aimed I’m going to be riddled with bullets.”

Soldier put a finger to his head. “You don’t use the rockets to kill him,” he said, as if telling Jeremy the obvious, “you use it to get the high ground.”

“What?”

“You point it at the earth, and shoot, and BAM, you are FLYING, private! Forget about the planes, you are the airforce now! He’ll never see it coming! Then you go down and smack his head with a shovel!”

There was a very obvious flow to that plan. A very obvious flow that would lead to the very obvious conclusion of Jeremy blowing himself up six ways from sunday. Solider was, of course, absolutely serious. Jeremy did not have the time or the mental capacity to explain the man he cannot overcome explosive force with sheer will, so he chose to nitpick the smaller, less obvious with the brilliant plan. “I said I can’t hit him with a shovel.”

Well, in theory, Jeremy CAN try and hit Miller with a shovel. But that would be a waste of a good shovel, not to mention Jeremy was certain that the recoil alone would break any bone in his own arm.

Soldier chugged his coffee can - now magically opened by the fork - and then considered it some more.

“Well, private, I don’t usually resort to such tactics, but-” his voice died.

“Well?”

“You can kill his fighting spirit,” Soldier said.

“You want me to do magic on the guy?”

“NO! But is a man truly alive without honour?”

“Well-”

“Without purpose?”

“Um- “

“I shudder at the thought!” Soldier fist banged on the table. “Shudder, I tell you! It’s better to die than to live in fear!”

Miller didn’t fear anything; not when he was the biggest horror of them all. “I don’t think that’s gonna cut it.” Jeremy said.

“You can do worse!”

“Like what?”

“You can claim the unthinkable! Unimaginable!” Soldier was outright shaking now, “oh, don’t make me say it!”

“Uh-”

“You can call him…” Soldier's voice dropped, “a CIVILIAN.”

And finally, the conversation reached its stupid, inevitable end.

Jeremy found himself staring at the out-of-nowhere coffee pot. I have no idea, man, The mysterious jug seemed to say, I developed sentience just so I can be bewildered by what this guy is saying. This is how bad this is.”

It’s too early for this. Jeremy gave up; “Forget I asked.” he said.

***

In retrospect, the words ‘Scout Ball’ should have been a red flag. In fairness, assuming that ‘Scout Ball’ meant Heavy would pick Jeremy up, fold him in half and throw him at the payload was a bit of a stretch. It wasn’t the logical conclusion, but Jeremy should have known better than to expect any conclusion made in Tuefort to be logical. The only part in all of this that was actually surprising was how off-target Heavy’s aim was; instead of landing next to the payload, Jeremy crashed face down a random dune two buildings away.

“Ow.” Jeremy said. “I think my nose is on my forehead again.”

“Oh, quit whining.” Said a familiar voice next to him. Spy, then. THEIR Spy, hopefully. Jeremy had a few uncomfortable run-ins with the BLU Spy. Getting backstabbed was embarrassing enough. Calling the enemy Spy “PAPA” was enough to kill Jeremy out of shame alone.

Jeremy waddled onto his feet, trying his best to find footing in the sand. f*cking sand. It got everywhere. There was sand in his underwear. There was sand in his underwear moments after they left the wash.

f*cking Tuefort.

“I think there's sand in my brain,” Jeremy said.

“Doubtful,” said Spy, “for that to happen, you need to have a brain in the first place. Definitely the RED Spy, then. Even the enemy wasn’t that much of a dick.

Jeremy finally got onto his feat. Feeling his face, he noticed his nose was thankfully unbroken, and his eyes were still very much in their sockets; all was in place except a few teeth, but those grew back in respawn anyway. Looking back, Jeremy could see the Payload, away up another dune - currently manned by the BLU Demoman, surrounded with explosives and loudly proclaiming to stick some more up any RED arse he’ll see coming up his way. Jeremy would have to run up to him - climbing down and then up sandy hills, which are bad enough to handle WITHOUT the threat of having your limbs removed from your body via bomb.

“Sniper could get him.” Jeremy mumbled under his breath.

“Oui, as much as it pains me to admit, the Bushman just might have proven useful, had he bothered to stay alive, that is.”

Right. Sniper’s dead. BLU Soldier got him a while back - the last thing you want to see in your scope is the ugly side of a rocket luncher held by a man who shot himself two stories high- and respawn seems to take twice as long today.

Jeremy sucked a breath. “We can’t get him. Not fighting our way up.”

“Non, I’m afraid not.”

Next to the Payload, the BLU Demoman was busy yelling his heart out. Most of it was curses, and what was not, was a detailed account of each and every fault in any and all members of RED. Scout was a mama boy, evidently. Jermey went into a well condensed emotional spiral regarding his feelings about his own mother, and spent about two seconds in that particular mental hellhole before he realised the real Scout would probably NOT spiral, at all. Jeremy put all that was in him into not thinking, and yelled back: “Don’t you bring my Ma into this!”

“Tres Bien.” Spy said.

“Yeah, I’m getting into that whole being Scout thing.”

“Non. The real Scout would have run up there to bash the man’s skull in and die halfway. I commend you specifically on NOT doing that.”

The BLU Demoman showed Jeremy The Finger. As in, his detached-in-an-unfortunate-gardening-accident-and-pickled-in-a-jar-hanging-from-a-string-around-his-neck middle finger. “It’s a sad finger tea lose,” their Demo said, “can’t say I don’t feel bad for the badger. Let it be a lesson to ye, ya daen’t garden with pipe bombs.”

“Course not,” Jeremy said.

Jeremy could practically feel his brain making the turn sideways away from the highway. f*ck.

Jeremy, focus . Demoman uphill, fully armed, ready to blow up anyone within his eyesight.

Eyesight. Right. Of course.

“Spy,” Jeremy said, “You're up. “

“I am many things,” Spy said, “UP is not one of them, unfortunately.”

“Could you not start with your cryptic speeches?” Jeremy turned around to look at him, “Go do your job-”

Spy was laying on a small sand heel, his back contorting in a pretzel-esque shape. The bone of his right leg found its way outside his skin. His suit, Jeremy noticed, was still pressed into perfect creases, impeccably clean despite the fountain blood currently sprouting out of the stump where his left hand has once been. “I would love nothing more than to go and shut that blubbering idiot up,” Spy said, “alas, I am in no condition to do so.”

“Who got you?”

“Scout.” Spy rasped.

That made sense. The BLU Scout stayed true to his promise back when they tied him up, and came after Spy, Demo and Jeremy with a vengeance. The man would spot them from the other side of the battlefield and charge at them with shotgun in one hand, tennis racket in the other, and nothing but rage in his eyes. Jeremy had no idea how the guy could find them so easily. It’s like they had the word “asshole” floating above their heads in neon letters, or something.

“Then the Pyro,” Spy continued, gesturing his head towards his left palm, currently about six feet away from him and on fire.

“Well,” said Jeremy, “at least you're alive?”

Spy shrugged, an impressive feat considering his shoulders were currently one atop of the other. “Not in a way that matters.”

“Why, are you depressed or somethin’?

“NON. I just can’t work.” Spy responded, “Respawn tactics.”

It took a while for Jeremy to understand that, at times, it’s better to leave people alive than outright killing them. Death meant respawn, and respawn meant dealing with the same asshole but with perfect health. They actually had a sign back at the RED base: “Death is temporary, work is forever”. It did not feel as inspirational as it was meant to be.

Jeremy tightened his grip around his bat. “Do you want me to, uh… Finish the job?”

Spy rolled his eyes. “God forbid a man takes a break.” He hummed. “Bring me my left hand,” he added

Jeremy nodded, and picked up the decapitated palm, holding it from the not-burning end. He returned to Spy, hand in, uh, hand. “Do you want to, uh, reattach it, or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s on fire. And you don’t have the tools.”

“Tools?”

“Medical stapler.”

“I didn’t know they make staplers especially to attach hands.”

“They don’t,” said the Spy, aggravated, “a medical stapler is a regular stapler but a MEDIC is holding it.”

Oh, right, they had a medic. Well, at least in theory. Medic went on vacation a day before Jeremy “arrived”, so they never met. Demo said this was for the better. “One look at the inside of yer rib cage and they’ll know yer not the real deal.” When asked why, exactly, would the Medic look inside Jeremy’s ribcage, Demo responded with: “how do ye expect them to take your body temperature? Stick a thermostat up yer arse?” Hearing that, Jeremy became very glad the Medic was not there - even if that meant that, on the field, they were all dying five times as often as they would with a medic around.

Spy pushed his hand inside his breast pocket. One of them, anyway. Jeremy remembered his father’s jackets having at least 20 hidden pockets each. Jeremy would always rummage through them whenever his father took the jacket off.

This is how he found the knife. Spy had a similar one; actually, the exact same knife; Jeremy saw it, but felt his father’s knife (Jeremy’s own knife, now) was different somehow. lIke what Spy held was a Not Knife.

Finally, spy pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket, manoeuvring it with his one hand to get out a single cigarette and put it to his lips. “The hand?” he said, impatiently. He held the hand from its bloody stump and used its burning ring finger to light up his cigarette. “Merci,” he said, shoving the burning hand in the sand, effectively smothering the fire. Then, he stared at the hand. “Scout,” he said, “do you want to play baseball?”

“Weird time to play catch, dontcha think?”

“We do not have time for you to try and attempt being CLEVER.” Spy began to push each of the fingers of the hand inside, turning it into a curled fist. “take this.”

“UH, no thank you?”

“NOT a suggestion.”

The fist felt heavy back in Jeremy’s hand. It was cold and clammy, now, aside from thin smoke swirling up from the ring finger. “You don’t want me to, like, eat it for sustenance or something, right?”

“At some point,” Spy said, “I will regain control of my lower body. Then, I am going to hit you.”

“That’s a no, right?”

Spy used his good hand and pointed at the Demoman. “Do the baseball thing on him,” he said.

Jeremy was not sure when his brain evolved to take in words like “the baseball thing”, a closed decapitated fist, and a screaming demoman and then produce a coherent plan, but it did.

It was years since the last time Jeremy played baseball. The last memory he had of it was playing with his brother in an empty lot they converted to a field. He couldn’t remember who it was who taught him how to hit a baseball mid air. He remembered it was one of his older brothers - one of the older four, but nothing beyond that. It was muscle memory which led his arms to throw the fist in the air, keeping the BLU demoman at the corner of his eye.

One.

Zero.

Five.

Hellpoint.

The THUCK of the bat hitting the fist rang through Jeremy’s ear. He watched it curving up and down across the sky.

The BLU demoman yelled: “is that a bloody PUNCH?” then was another THUCK, and the man just stood there, stumped, limbs loose around his body. Not one moment later, his head was detached from his body by an advancing Demo.

“I GOT HIM!” Jeremy called, “how’s THAT for aim? Got him right in the head! Spy, Spy, did you SEE that?” he turned back, only to discover Spy already dead, his cigarette still burning in his mouth. He probably missed the hit entirely.

“Urgh, just when I actually WANT to hear what he has to say,” Jeremy said, “typical.”

***

The Sniper was appalled. “The bloody hell is that?”

“A coffee pot.” Jeremy said.

“I know it’s a coffee pot,” the Sniper retorted, “but where did it come from?”

“I donno.”

“Did YOU put it on?”

“No.”

“Is anyone else awake?”

“Soldier.” Jeremy said, and then added: “wasn’t him, I asked.”

Sniper continued to stare at the coffee pot. He wore his sunglasses, and even through the yellow tinted lens Jeremy could sense the distrust that man had in his eyes. “Ya think it’s a spy?”

The coffee pot did not react to this accusation, maintaining it’s cool. Well, figuratively, that is, as it was still hot enough for steam to come up from the nozzle. Or maybe, just maybe, the lack of a reaction could be attributed to the fact that it was a freakin’ coffee pot.

“Do you often accuse inanimate objects of spying on you?” Jeremy asked.

“No, mate, I’m saying this is a Spy PRETENDING to be a coffee pot.”

“It’s like, this big,” Jeremy gestured with his hands, “and transparent. And filled with coffee. It’s kind of a hard disguise to pull.”

“Wouldn’t put it past the wankers. Once saw a spy disguising himself as a wooden crate, only caught ‘im cause the crate was shuffling around”

“You sure he wasn’t just hiding UNDER the crate?”

“Nah, mate, t’was the crate. Ya burn it and they change back.” he hummed, “Pyro’s up yet?”

“No,” Jeremy said, not even try to hide his own jealousy of Pyro currently not awake and f*ck o’clock state.

Sniper flicked his finger against the coffee pot glass surface. It made a clear clink which caused the coffee inside to vibrate. “Huh. Just a coffee pot, then.”

“Wow, Sherlock, how’d ya gather that?”

Sniper rubbed his nose, “I’m just gonna take it as a compliment. You are sh*t at sarcasm, mate.“

“I’m just a little off.” Jeremy said, “I’m dead tired,”. He leaned in on the table, arms crossed. He could feel gravity pulling his head down; yet when he closed his eyes, all he saw was Miller, giant, grinning, immobile, holding a minigun in his face. “f*ck.”

Next to the kitchen counter, Sniper was setting up a second coffee pot. He threw in what looked like four times the normal amount of ground coffee in there, topping it with water and spinning the pot to try and mix it. By the end of it, there was brown-black sludge lazily sloshing about. Sniper hummed in agreement, clearly approving of this abomination. “now that's a beaut,” he said, turning the heat on.

“Isn’t coffee supposed to be liquid?” Jeremy asked.

“”it’s liquid enough.”

“That thing had the consistency of cold jam.”

“Jam’s liquid.”

That can’t be right. Jeremy tried to conjure up everything he knew about jam, liquids, and coffee. It amounted to this: “It’s the wrong liquid. It’s, uh, sticky, and coffee isn’t sticky, or chewy, and you usually don’t chew on liquids, I think.”

When Sniper answered, he talked very slowly:”Mate,” he said, “I don’t think either of us know what the f*ck you are talking about. It’s way too early for you not to make sense.”

Jeremy groaned. “I need more sleep. Just, I can’t,”

“I meant you should shut up,” Sniper said, “not tell me your life story-”

“How does he do it?” Jeremy continued, “Spy told me he’s neer up before ten on the weekends. TEN, Sniper.”

“Again, shut up-”

“Is he some sort of magic or somethin’? I don’t think I ever woke up after nine, let alone TEN.”

“Scout, mate, the only times I see you up on Saturdays before noon is when Miss Pauling’s visiting. And even then you fall asleep whenever she doesn’t look at ya.”

1. f*ck. Jeremy was Scout. RIght. the cover. Life danger. Jeremy reminded himself he did not want to die - not permanently, anyway - no matter how nice a good rest in a coffin sounded right about now. “Soldier woke me up,” he said, groggily.

Sniper grinned. “See, that’s why I sleep in the van.” He took off the coffee pot - the sludge was now bubbling ominous- and poured a small amount of it o a ceramic cup labelled ‘#1 Sniper’. He then took the cap and put it aside, and, with a swinged, chugged away the rest.

Jeremy experienced the unusual sensation of being dumbfounded about three things at once. He wanted to ask about those three things, but, unfortunately, he could only talk about one topic at any given time, so he ended up just asking: “Why the van?”

“Comfortable. Smells nice. Me own space.”

For a person like Jeremy, who had seen, smelled, and was disturbed by the general aura of the VAN, only a third of this sentence registered. “You sleep in the front seat, or-”

“I have a mattress in the back.”

This was the first time there was any evidence to suggest the back of Sniper’s van was filled with anything but moonshine, bonfires, and animals at various stages of taxidermy. “Huh.” Jeremy said.

“And, as a reminder, NO,” Sniper said, “you can’t take a nap there,”

Holy sh*t , thought Jeremy, why would I? Then again, Sniper’s ‘you’ must’ve referred to Scout, which didn’t possess Jeremy’s general aversion to getting himself into situations where he can get in contact with deadly bacteria. Then again, Scout might have not known what bacteria is. “Do I know what bacteria is?” Jeremy asked.

“Doubt that.” said Sniper, and Jeremy inclined to agree.

“Do YOU know what bacteria is?”

“Yeap.”

“And you still sleep in that van?”

“Yeap. And would ya look at that, I’m not getting up at bumf*ck am because of Soldier.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Oh, you realllly slept in today. Seven AM, what a sleeping beauty YOU are.”

Sniper was grinning again; Jeremy could see the corners of his mouth going up, even as the man’s back was turned to him; Sniper spoke as he washed the empty coffee pot in the sink. “Woke up cause I wanted to wake up, mate. Got target practice.” He put the clean coffee pot back in its place and waved his hands to dry them up, “and I want to finish it before the weather decides to put me on the barbie.”

It was very important for Jeremy’s cover to pretend like he understood Australian slang. “Sure.” he said, “Don’t want to go into the dreamhouse and all that, right?” Then, before Sniper could reply, he said: “I would come with you, but I hate target practice.” That was only half the truth. Jeremy hated target practice when there were other people around. He always felt watched - like he was back at FROZEN HELL and having Virgil breathing down his neck.

“Yeah, that much’s pretty obvious,” Sniper said, “you can’t shoot a koala off a sandhill.”

“I’m not shooting a koala,” Jeremy protested.

“Not with your aim, you ain’t”

“Screw you.” Jeremy said, “if I had a rifle like yours I could hit anythin’, easy.”

“Sure, mate, I bet you are secretly a professional sniper.”

But I am, Jeremy thought. For half a second, he considered blowing up his cover and dared Sniper to let him try his rifle. Then he remembered that Sniper would probably shove a machete down his throat for even suggesting that SCOUT would touch his gun, cover blown or not.

“T’s a shame, though. Could have used your help during target practice”

“Yeah? Need some pointers?”

“Piss off.”

“So, what?”

“Always good to practise on moving targets.”

Jeremy processed this. “Oh, SCREW YOU.”

“What? Isn’t it you who always brags about how no sniper ever landed a headshot on you?” It wasn’t a joke; that just made it worse.

The bullet stuck in Jeremy’s brain pulsed with pain. “Oh, of course I do,” he said, dropping his head into his arms. “f*ck.”

Sniper’s voice echoed somewhere above Jeremy’s head: “I really think you should be hittin’ the sheets, take a nap and what not,” then, just to prevent the conversation from becoming too chummy, he added: “You look like dingo roadkill the dog dragged in.”

“I can’t sleep,” Jeremy’s voice came out muffled and sad from under his arms. He raised his head, “I just can’t fall back asleep now,”

“Why?”

In order to sleep, Jeremy needed the highways of his brain to be clear - as clear as highways can get, anyway - and now the entire thing was jammed by a five vehicle pileup named MILLER.

“Just can’t.” Sniper wouldn’t get it. He’s just too… Sniper. An actual sniper, not whatever unholy THING Jeremy ended up becoming. One shot, one kill kind of guy. “Hey,” Jeremy said, “can I ask you a professional question?”

“Sure,”

“Really?”

“Yep. First sensible thing I heard you ask for in nine months.”

“Let’s say you want to kill a guy.” Jeremy said. “But he’s not a regular guy. Not a shoot and scoot guy.” Jeremy could feel his voice quicken. Lately he’d been talking faster than usual, words fighting their way to be the first out of his mouth, but not this time. This time his voice was quick in a way Jeremy was intimately familiar with. “He’s big. REALLY BIG.”

“Does he have a forehead?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then a headshot would do it. Don’t care how big you are, you don’t survive a headshot.”

The bullet in Jeremy’s brain felt hot. f*ck. Jeremy thought he was done with this sh*t when he was ten. “Well, what if the guy is not only big, but smart?”

“Hard to be clever with a bullet in yer brain.”

“Ok, but what if he’s smart enough to wear a helmet?”

Sniper considered this. “Then I get him between his eyes, where ‘is helmet doesn't cover his face.”

“And if it does?”

“Then that man is Soldier, probably, and I’lll let him rocket jump his way off a cliff.” That was a joke. Awkward, but a joke. Jeremy didn’t laugh.

“What if he has face armour? And body armour? What if he never steps foot in an open space?”

“Is that a moleman you want me to kill?”

“What if-” Jeremy sighed, “what if he knows there’s a sniper after him. And he’s prepared. And he’s been walking around with five layers of armour and hiding underground.”

“Then I wait till he comes out, and then I get ‘im.”

“What if he doesn’t come out?”

“In my experience, the only man who can never come back to the surface is a dead one.”

“He might come out, but if he’d do, he’ll be armoured like a tank and handling a firepower of one,” Jeremy said, “what then?”

“Oh, that’s simple”

Jeremy was suddenly very, very awake. “is it?”

“Ay. I just don’t take the job.”

Jeremy’s heart sank. “Ok, but if it isn’t a job-”

“I never kill anyone outside a job,” Sniper said, “I’m not some bloody hobbyist. And I don’t take jobs I can’t do. Donno how to kill the bugger. Don’t care. Not a job for a sniper.”

“What if it wasn’t you. What if it was another guy killing him. Like, I don’t know, me.”

Sniper laughed. “You? Mate, it doesn’t even matter what gear he has on. You couldn’t snipe the man to save your life.”

“Right,” Jeremy said. His voice sounded bitter, and distant, like the last words of a man dying alone in the cold.

“Lucky you ain’t a sniper then, eh?” Sniper tried to smile. Jeremy could tell there was an attempt on the other man’s end to be reassuring.

“Right,” Jeremy said again, just as defleated as before, “if I was a sniper, and I had to kill this guy, that would really suck.”

***

The BLU Pyro’s flamethrower produced blue flames. Very quirky. Being burned alive was not as quirky, fire color notwithstanding. Unfortunately, Jeremy - well, Scout - caught fire very easily, and the BLU Pyro took advantage of that.

“You have dry skin and low body mass.” the RED Pyro said, “Easy to ignite.”

“How can I be, youknow, less flammable?”

“Why? Your low point of ignition is one of the best qualities about you.”

The best way to not burn to death was to not catch fire, and THAT meant avoiding the BLU Pyro at all costs. Jeremy could outrun him, easily, and he learnt to always watch out for corners, but sometimes…

Sometimes luck is just against you; Sometimes you find yourself at the edge of a cliff, with a gleeful Pyro advancing on your position and blocking the first path to escape.

Jeremy’s nose picked up the smell of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

“Are you a good swimmer?” whispered a voice in his ear.

“UH-”

“Nevermind. Drowning beats burning alive.” said the voice, and Jeremy felt a kick in his lower abdomen. The knockback sent him above the edge, falling down to the shallow lake below. He could hear the Pyro's frustrated sounds, muffled by his mask, getting quieter and quieter above him.

The water was cold and grimey, and crashing into them felt like crashing into concrete. Jeremy resurfaced, though, coughing out water. He lost his baseball cap, and the water caused his clothes to hang awkwardly from his body. Shivering, yet otherwise perfectly fine, Jeremy crawled back to the shore, dragging his bat behind him.

The smell of burnt flesh weft its way from the cliff. Loud, inhuman; yet unmistakingly French accented screams of terror followed. Then, silence.

***

Demo was the first to actually try the coffee from the unknown coffee pot. He didn’t even question it; going in, slamming his coffee mug on the kitchen counter, and filling about half of it with coffee. Jeremy assumed the other half was going to be alcohol of some kind, but Demo just chugged it as is. Sensing Jeremy’s surprise with this unusual display of sobriety, Demo declared: “No drinking before a job.”

“Fair,” the word left Jeremy’s mouth before he could think. Then, after he could think, his brain still failed to process the information correctly. A moment after that, the part of the brain responsible for understanding the passage of time finally got to work, and thus Jeremy was finally able to comprehend the obvious. “It’s Saturday,” he said.

“Aye.” Demo said.

“We… Don’t work on Saturday.”

“Well, ya lazy boy, maybe YE dean’t.”

Jeremy tried to do the maths. “Wait, Demo, you got a second job?”

“It’s me third, really, but who’s counting?”

“Yer mum’s countin’,” said a voice behind Demo; Eyelander. The cursed (and, occasionally, cursing) sword.

“But I don’t work on Saturday, right? This isn’t the best day for me to get blown up.”

“Nae, no work today for ye. Surprised to see ye awake at all.”

“Soldier,” Jeremy said, “and I can’t go back to sleep.”

“Cause of a headache?” Eyelander asked.

“Sort of.” Jeremy said. Sure, a headache. A twice his size in every direction with a murderous intent headache.

“Aye, you know what’s good fer that, lad?” Eyelander asked.

“OY, Shut up,” said Demo, “No beheadings off the clock.”

“Well, maybe it can be on the clock,” said Eyelander, “anyone wants ya dead, boyo?”

“Yeah. “ said Jeremy.

“See, aye told ye,” said Eyelander, “who is it? They pay good money for yer head?”

For the first time, Jeremy wondered if Miller put a bounty on his head. No, no way; No self respecting merc would pay someone ELSE to kill a target. “It’s a revenge thing,” Jeremy said, “so, I don’t think so.”

Eyelander wailed in the voice of a thousand dammed souls. The room felt darker, colder, as if Eyelander’s sucked the very life out of this world.

“Pipe down, will ye,” Demo said, “Ignore ‘im, just throwing a tantrum. Anywae, who wants ye dead? Aside from the BLU team, that is. And anyone with a working set of ears.” Demo’s one visible eyebrow furrowed into his eyepatch. “Oh, that Miller bloke?”

f*ck, Demo remembered. What a stupid slip of the tongue that has been.

“Ay, yer silent, ain't that a rare sight.” said Demo, “I’m right, then,” he nodded. “What didya dea? Did you nick his grandma’s precious kettle?”

“Did you nick his precious grandma?” Eyelander asked.

“I killed almost half his team.” Jeremy said, solemnly, and suddenly the room felt dark for a different reason entirely. “And I want to kill him, too.” Jeremy felt distant, as if saying those words out loud pulled his own soul out of his body. It was the first time he admitted it out loud. The first time he had someone to admit it to.

“How yer gonna kill him?” Demo asked.

“Beheading!” Eyelander cried.

Jeremy nodded. “No way. This guy has muscles over muscles over muscles and armour on top of it. I’ll have to hack at it with an axe, and he’ll have me by the neck before I’ll even get him to bleed.”

“We can dea it! We’ll give yea vengeance discount!”

“NO DISCOUNTS,” Demo called, “sorry, lad, it’s the principle of it.”

“Doesn’t really matter.” Jeremy said. “I need to be the one to get him.”

“For peace o’ mind?”

Because anyone who goes up against Miller ends up dead, and the only person Jeremy could allow to die by Miller's hand was himself. “It’s gotta be me,” Jeremy said. He could feel a weight building behind his eyes, a familiar fear settling back into his mind. He had to change topics, fast. “By the way,” Jeremy said, “that coffee you drank. How was it?”

“Didn’t really pay attention. “ said Demo, “Liquid? Hot? Why, was it yers?”

Jeremy nodded. “I have no clue where it came from. none of us made it.”

“That so?”

“Might be pure poison.”

Demo shrugged. “EH, put worse in me body.”

Tavish never let anything even stress him out. He was never scared of anything, or anyone. Tavish could kill a god but will never need to.

“You are so cool.” Jeremy said, and f*ck why are those stupid Scout clothes make him say everything aloud. WHY can’t he just shut up like he used to.

“You said something?”

So, there is a god. Demo didn’t hear.

“Uh, just , you should probably let it cool. The coffee. I mean. Next time you drink it.”

Jeremy could take the pot of piping hot coffee and throw it at its own face. What a stupid cover up.

***

Spy lied to Jeremy. Well, Spy was lying to Jeremy, continuously, about everything, usually with no better reason than just for the fun of it, but THIS, right NOW, was a pretty big lie.

“It wasn’t a LIE,” Spy said, picking up the receiver, “I told you we are going out to do what you do every week.”

“I thought it was, like, hitting severed heads with the bat or somethin’,” Jeremy said, “just, yaknow, a regular passtime.”

Spy pressed on a few buttons. He knows the number by heart , thought Jeremy. “This is a passtime. People talk to pass the time.”

“I can’t do this.” Jeremy said, his throat dry. “I can’t. “

“You can and you will,” Spy said, “now come get this from me so I can get away from this damn sun”

It was noon, when the sun was at it’s strongest, and they both stood smack dab in the middle of the base’s courtyard, where the base’s only civilian phone was located. Jeremy could feel the heat absorbed by his hat radiating into his skull. He could feel the dry skin of his arms getting close to ignition. He felt how his feet turned into two burning bricks stuck in his leather running shoes. Yet, his heart felt stone cold, and he could tell the sweat running down his forehead was not a result of the heat.

Jeremy moved his head from side to side so fast he almost felt dizzy.

“Scout,” Spy said, moving the phone receiver in a threating manner, “if you will not come here and take this call, I’m going to kill you. This isn’t an empty threat, I’m going to go there and stab you. And then when you will come back, I’ll stab you again.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, “Let’s go with that. Kill me.’

“UH,” came a voice from the receiver, “can you not kill my brother, please? And Jeremy, could you PLEASE not ask to be killed? Its giving me anxiety,”

This is my brother. The thought hit Jeremy like lightning, This is what my brother sounds like. But which one? Jeremy could not recognize the voice. It was deep, a man’s voice, and that only narrowed it down by - by nothing, really. Jeremy had seven brothers and by now they were all adults by now.

Spy put the receiver to his ear. “Which one of them are you? I see.” Covering the lower end of the receiver, he said: “He’s Donnie.”

“Donnie,” Jeremy’s voice couldn’t have been more than a whisper. Donnie. He was the youngest- no, second youngest, Jeremy was the youngest. They shared a room, BEFORE.

A foreign object was pushed in Jeremy’s face. A moment to late, Jeremy realised that it was the phone’s receiver. “Hello?” he said, meekly.

“Gosh, finally,” Donnie said,”you’re harder to catch then the president, yaknow that?” Donnie’s voice was calm, cheerful even, “So, howdy’a find this universe?”

“Weird,” Jeremy admitted, “it's a bit different then where I came from.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

“UH, I don’t think I would be talking to you right now if I was back - “ not BACK HOME, but - “back in the original universe. “

“Why? You guys don’t have phones?” said a distant voice from the other side - another voice, a man at close proximity to Donnie.

“UM-”

“Vincnent, come on, it’s an alternate reality, not the Middle Ages. Wait, Jeremy, it ISN’T the middle ages alternate universe, right?”

“No,” Jeremy’ said, “I think it’s sort of the same time that we have now,”

“See?” Donnie said, his voice a bit distant; he was talking to Vincent. “Obviously we wouldn’t be talkin’ on the phone cause he lives nearby or something and can just meet us in person,”

Jeremy felt his foot thumping. and his teeth were biting at his tongue. He can just meet us in person. Spy was staring at him - his eyes shining from underneath the shade he somehow managed to find in the otherwise bare contryard.

Spy lit a cigarette, seemingly unbothered.

“So, Jeremy - wait, your’e name’s still Jeremy, right?”

Jeremy nodded, his teeth drawing blood.

“It’s a phone call,” Spy said,

The f*ck does he want? “So WHAT-” Jeremy started, annoyed, and then -” f*ck. Right. Sorry. Yeah, I’m Jeremy.”

“But not our Jeremy,” said Vincent.

Not anyone’s Jeremy.

“Don’t be rude, Vin. of course he’s our Jeremy. Just not that Jeremy. Not Jeremy, but named, yaknow, Jeremy.”

The highways in Jeremy’s brain were falling apart.

“Scout,” Jeremy said, “you can just say Scout.”

“Seems kinda rude to just call you ‘SCOUT’, “ Donnie said, “since you got a name and all. I don’t have to if you don’t want me to. I can handle more than one Jeremy. “

“I don’t mind,”

It’s easier if I’m Scout, anyway.

“O-K.” Said Donnie, “As long as youre cool with it.”

Behind the smoke, Spy’s eyes shined. They were blue. Like Jeremy’s. Not himself. The other Jeremy.

“Sure, I mean, why get confused an’ all when you got the title right there?”

Jeremy could be wrong, but he could’ve sworn he HEARD Vincent jumping off the sofa he was probably sitting on. “HEY! Scout! That’s your work nickname, right?”

“In this world, yeah.” a pause, “almost no one calls me Jeremy, anyway.”

“You sure you can tell the other guy your secret work name?” Donnie asked.

“What other guy?”

“The other guy. The one who handed you the phone. I forgot his name”

Jeremy glanced another look at Spy, who retorted with a courteous wave. “You didn’t forget his name. He never told you in the first place.”

Spy’s mouth widened in a grin; the movement moved the cigarette from one side to tje other. Even the smoke felt pretentious.

“Why?”

“Cause he’s a Spy. And Spies are full of sh*t.”

“What are you talking about?” Donnie said, “Wait- THIS is SPY? THE SPY? That spook Jeremy keeps complaining about?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t that obvious?’

“NO,” said Donnie, “How could it- VINCENT!” He called, “ That guy was SPY!”

“I mean, who else could it be?”

“JEREMY- I mean, Scout- I, why does the Spy have the number for Ma’s house?” Donnie was speaking so loudly, Jeremy had to distance away the receiver. Behind him, Spywas nodding his head and waving his arms.

Jeremy made an annoyed face, and returned to the call “I mean, why not? He knows Ma.”

Spy ditched any futile attempts to communicate with Jeremy, and straight up launched at the phone. On instinct, Jeremy jumped out of the way. Spy tried to smack the phone out of his hands- And Jeremy kicked him in the crotch.

The sound of Spy’s groans almost drowned Donnie hushed “What?”

“Yeah, cause he’s my dad and all- “ there was a piercing pain in Jeremy’s side. He looked down to see Spy’s knife stuck in his abdomen; “You missed all the good parts.” he told Spy, “this your first time or somethin’?”

Donnie was talking, and though Jeremy could hear him, he didn’t quite registered the words. “uh- could you repat that?” Jeremy asked.

“He’s your DAD?”

“Um- “ Jeremy pulled out the knife, “not my dad, Jeremy’s dad,” Jeremy cleaned the knife with his shirt, “I mean,” he continued, playing I’m glad he’s not my dad, he’s kind of a dick-” The knife closed with a click, and realisation dawned on Jeremy.

They didn’t know who Jeremy's father is. They didn’t know who Jeremy’s father is because in this universe, Jeremy’s father left them - and not even Jeremy (Scout? Whoever, not himself) knew who his father was.

Well, now they knew.

PARFIT.

“A dick’s an understatement, dude!” Vincnet called from the other side.

Spy buried his head in his palm. Jeremy handed him the closed knife. “SO, um, ok, sorry, didn’t think it was a secret. I mean, knew, but I sort of forgot. I just - I’m really good at shutting up normally. It’s hard to believe but I really am.” OK, but they don’t know the normal you. They know Scout. Jeremy decided to further explain his point: “Like, I’m excellent in keeping my mouth closed. I swear, I could go on without talking for days. I just… clam up. I do. I-”

“I’m going to stab you again, Scout.”

“Oh yeah? Aim better next time. Some backstabber you are, can’t even get the stab in the back. Uh, Donnie?”

“YOUR OWN FATHER STABBED YOU?”

First time he’s talking to his brother in twenty years and he’s giving him a heart attack. Great. This is going great.

“Technically not my OWN father, but, yeah. Look, I’m gonna go die from blood loss and maybe we could pick this up later?”

Spy snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic. It wasn’t a real stab. It was a warning stab. You will be fine.”

Jeremy covered the end of the receiver, “I’m trying to get off this call,” he said.

“Of course you are. And I am trying to make you suffer.”

Asshole.

On the other side of the line, Donnie inhaled then exhaled, slowly. “I’m going to freak out.” he said.

“OK-”

“Later. I’m going to freak out later. There’s something we gotta do first.”

“Stop the blood?”

“OH yeah, OK, two things. But - ok. Jeremy calls every week, but he hadn’t called in a while because of the, uh, falling to another reality thing. And we’re fine, cause, yaknow -”

“THERE'S NO PHONES IN THE OTHER WORLD!”

“Vincent, there ARE-”

“If there were, Jeremy would’ve called.”

“Urgh, fine. Look, specific asides, we understand why he couldn’t call. I mean, Lisa is super worried, but we just tell her you got a work thing.”

And who in the hell is LISA? Jeremy covered the receiver with his palm. “Lisa?”

“Niece,” Spy rasped, and for a split second, Jeremy’s mind went blank.

Of course Scout had a niece. Jeremy probably had one, too. More then one - for f*cks sakes, he had seven brothers - and nephews, too. It wasn’t strange. Shouldn’t have been strange. Jeremy’s oldest brother was already married by the time Jeremy died. By the time Jeremy left.

Spy’s voice cut through the fog in his mind like a lightning strike. “favourite niece,” he said.

“He has favourites?”

“Oui. and trust that I know of that against my will.”

“Fine, fine. How old is she?”

“Six years old. “

SIX. That's after -

After-

“Jeremy?” Donnie’s voice sounded distant, like Jeremy was underwater and Donnie was trying to call for help.

Jeremy began to shift his weight from one foot to another. “Sorry. Dozed off.”

“You ok?”

“Yeah. Super ok. The best I’ve ever been. PARFIT. “

“Well, um, anyway, we just wanted to call and see if you need anything. “

“No,” Jeremy spat out, and f*ck, he hated that question.

Virgil used to ask if Jeremy needed anything. He would barge into the room without knocking- or pounce on Jeremy the moment he left his room, had the door been locked.

Jeremy never needed anything.

This was not Virgil. This was not Virgil. This was not Virgil and this was not anyone Miller might’ve sent. It was just Donnie.

Back BEFORE, Jeremy was afraid of thunderstorms. One night there was a thunderstorm so aweful Jeremy crawled into herself and cried. Cried like a girl- NO. That’s what Miller said. Donnie never cared if he cried. And never told anyone else. Never told because Jeremy told him not to tell. Because even BEFORE Jeremy was wrong but Donnie never saw it that way. Would he think differently now?

Obviously he would, you walking corpse.

But that’s on Jeremy. Donnie was… Nice. Donnie was nice before, probably still nice now.

“I’m sorry, I meant I’m fine.” Jeremy said, “Everyone’s been really nice, and I’m not in any life danger-” wait, “that I’m not paid to be in.”

“You sure? We can send some stuff your way.”

God, no. “Ah, it would be too expensive and will take too long.”

“Jeremy actually got us on that Mann express delivery thing. They just pick it up and drop it with the rest of your guys' provisions, in a crate.”

Jeremy gasped. “Like Saxston Hale does?”

Yes, idiot, they are not literally dropping the crates out of the sky. What a stupid f*cking question-

“Yeah, exactly! Sometimes He comes in with the crates, though, Jeremy hates that.”

“SAXTON HALE arrives to the base? Rock Legend Saxton Hale???”

“I think he’s more of an action… man… something?” Donnie says, “He fights a lot of animals. He’s in charge of Mann Co.”

Saxston Hale is in charge of Mann Co. Which meant the Manns were not. Which meant that Gray Mann is probably dead - an idea that both felt like an impossibility and the natural order of things.

“Did you just call Saxton Hale a rock legend?” Vincent asked, “Look, I’m in sports radio, so maybe I don’t know, but isn’t the rock n roll crowd the type of people he beats up on a regular basis?”

There’s no way. “Saxton Hale beats people up?” wait, and - “You work in sport?”

Vincnent was a disk jokey, Jeremy knew that much. He would listen to his show - Spinning Vincent - since he was fifteen. In a way, Vincent was the only one of his brothers he kept up with- even if it was a hollow shell of a relationship.

“Yeah dude.” Vincnet said, “t’was my life long dream. What do I do in your universe?”

It WAS Vincent’s dream, in the BEFORE. He would stay affixed to coverage of sport - baseball preferable, but he would listen to ANYTHING, Jeremy could remember him glued to the coverage of Poland’s national ice skating championship, taking notes. He would sum up games and then reenact them aloud for Jeremy, wide eyed and in full focus.

Why then, did he -”You cover rock n roll music,”

“NO WAY-” Vincent started, but stopped midway. “Oh, Ma’s back. YO, MA, Jeremy’s on the phone! No, no, the other one!”

Jeremy’s blood ran cold. On the other side, he heard Donnie say: “Hey, Vin, take the phone for a while. I need to talk to Ma for a second. Won’t be long, Jeremy, she’ll be on in a minute”

There was a shuffling noise, and now it was Vincent’s voice which was more prominent as he said: “So, Scout, you said that Saxton Hale is a rock n roll musician?”

“Yeah, ‘Love Witch a Chance of Hale’.”

“Holy sh*t,” Vincent said, “that’s the dumbest name I ever heard.”

***

The Engineer whistled as he poured the coffee to his red beehive shaped cup. Beehives weren’t usually bright crimson, but RED was particular about any and all items it allowed inside the base.

“Damn good coffee!” the Engineer declared, “ who made it?”

“J’ais pass,” Jeremy said, deflated. Wait, f*ck - “I don’t know, man,” he said, louder, trying to erase the last words from existence by sheer decibels.

Luckily, the engineer didn’t notice the French - he was focused on an even more improbable chain of events. “Scout, up and awake, and it ain’t even noon yet! Good on ya. Got a plan with all that extra time you just got?”

Is stewing in one's own misery a plan? Probably not. Feeling like sh*t was always like a spontaneous adventure. “Not really. Wish I could go back to sleep, “

“What’s stopping you?”

The memory of a man I cannot kill. Jeremy stretched. It did little to aviate his tiredness, but, momentarily, Miller was off his mind. What's a reasonable, cool sounding reason to stay awake? What can he say to not sound like a pathetic wretch? Nothing; normal people just go back to sleep when they want too. Strong people don’t let their own brain etand in their way. “I donno.” Jeremy said, defeated.

“I hear ya,” the Engineer said, “Sometimes you want the sleep but it doesn't want you.” The Engineer took a long sip of his coffee.

You look like Fred. Jeremy thought, trying his best not to say it. You sound like Fred.

Not that Fred. Not that Fred.

“OR,” the Engineer continued, “it might be the radiation.” Jeremy’s surprise must have overcome his exhaustion, because the Engineer continued with : “Ow, it ain’t BAD. well, ain’t life threatening. For now. It’s just, there had been small spikes in radiation in last couple o’ weeks, and management been on my back tryin’ to get me to understand where it comin’ from.”

That’s not good. Can he tell? Jeremy sniffed his own armpits, trying to see if he smelled like radiation. He smelled like sweat, sugar drinks, and gunpowder. So, good news, Jeremy didn’t smell like radiation. Bad news, he smelled like sh*t.

“Naw, I asked them why would they even care, cause, mind you, that was a mighty untypical consideration on their part. And, well, apparently some big wig is ‘bout to visit, someone important from RED.”

“God, why would anyone want to visit HERE?” Jeremy let out.

The Engineer laughed. “Oh, just the usual stuff. Come to poke their nose here cause they suspect the whole operation is a huge waste of time n’ money.”

“Why would they think that?”

The Engineer grinned. “Cause the whole operation’s a huge waste of time n’ money.”

Jeremy didn’t know what this conversation was, but he knew it was too early for it. “So-” he tried to speak through his emerging headache, “why are WE here?”

“Well, can’t let someone else spend all that money, now can we?”

Jeremy nodded, slowly. “So we want them to waste time and money, but they don’t want to spend time and money. And they send a guy here to make sure we are not wasting time or money, which is absolutely what we do.”

“More or less,”

“And management don’t want that guy to understand that we are a huge waste o’ time and money, so they - wait, how does the radiation will make the guy understand this is a waste of time n’ money?”

“It might kill ‘im, which, yaknow, might put a damper on the whole performance review. So I gotta fix that.”

There was another element to all of this. A part Jeremy forgot. No, not forgot, he just lost it in the highways of his mind. What was it? Did it have to do with the coffee pot? Is the coffee pot the source of the radiation? Wait, right-

Self preservation, Jeremy forgot about self preservation. “Uh, so is no one in management worried that the radiation gonna kill US?”

The Engineer laughed so hard he almost spilled the coffee. “Good one!” he yelled. “Anywho, guy’s comin’ in a week or so, some young executive or director or-” the Engineer rubbed his chin, “share holder? I don’t know nothin’ about those titles. Miss Pauling’s gonna bring him over. Now don’t tell nobody I told you all that, the official memo’s gonna come tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” Jeremy said, dryly. Great, another person he’ll have to fool.

“Eh, it’s gonna be alright,” The Engineer said, sitting down, “you know the drill. Be on your best behaviour. Don’t murder the guy. Make a good impression. Stay classy.”

“Stay classy?”

“Yeah, that’s what the memo’s gonna say.”

“Did they ever MEET you people?”

The Engineer burst out laughing, again, “Don’t pull yourself out o’ this equation, now, “ he said, “you are just as bad.” his smile was different than Fred’s- something in the chin, and the twist of the mouth. That was good.

“Yaknow, my ol’ man used to wear a suit whenever those city boys used to come,” the Engineer said, leaning back, “different times, back then.”

Jeremy shouldn’t. Jeremy, really, really shouldn’t. He understood that, logically, he is about to open a pandora box of stuff he does NOT want to hear. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself. Like picking at a closing wound, like scratching at chipping paint, like driving your car into a traffic jam. “Wasn’t your dad with BLU?”

The Engineer nodded. “Yeap. Not that it mattered, mind, only real difference is the color o’ the shirt. Even my grandfather worked for both o’ them. Redmond and Bluscratch.”

“Your grandfather worked for the Manns?” Jeremy asked, “how old are they?”

“Older than anyone should be. Yaknow, I thought joinin’ RED was this big rebellious act, since my pa was fired from BLU.”

Oh, this Jeremy knew TOO MUCH about. “Right, after the Monaco thing.”

The Engineer’s eyes were hidden under his goggles, but he tilted his head in such a way, it was clear he was looking at Jeremy with puzzlement. “What Monaco thing? They just fired them cause they wanted fresh blood.”

Ah, MERDE. Of course there wasn’t any Monaco thing. Miller’s crew only lost because Jeremy’s father was there, and Jeremy’s father was there only because it was one last well paying job before retirement. f*ck.

“Miller was pretty pissed ‘bout that,” the Engineer said.

That was the first time Jeremy heard the name Miller spoken with such… Nonchalance. Like Miller being pissed off wasn't an event equivalent to the destruction of Pompei.

“Miller,” Jeremy said, and felt the blood draining from his face. He shouldn’t, he SHOULDN’T.

Yet he must.

“Who’s Miller?” Jeremy tried to ask, all nonchalance, like he’s really Scout and he couldn’t care less about this random character making a cameo in his life.

“Miller, the heavy. Old school merc, mean sonfa gun. Didn’t I tell ya about ‘im? Big guy. Boy, was he angry. Got up and punched a hole in the wall.”

“Bette’ than a hole in someone’s head,” Jeremy uttered.

“Suppose so. Still, his wife didn’t like that one bit. Can’t blame her, she just got those walls painted.”

His WHAT-

“OH, the guy’s married?” This is small talk. This is small talk. This small talk. “How nice for him.”

Miller didn't deserve anything nice.

This is not that Miller.

“Was married, now divorced. His wife took the dog.”

Jeremy could not imagine Miller having a DOG. Jeremy could not imagine Miller caring for any other living thing.

This is not that Miller.

“He still workin? Miller, I mean.”

“Freelance. Like my dad says, they ain’t quittin’ till ya put them in a casket.”

This is not that Miller.

And yet-

“How would you do that? Put Miller in a casket.” Jeremy let his nervousness glide into his fingers, who clenched and unclenched, over and over, moving wildly. Let it go. Let it dissipate. Stay calm.

“Good question.” the Engineer said, “well, knowing him and his crew, ya gotta start with the others. Kill them first.”

“Done.” Jeremy said.

“What?”

“UHHHH, Hypothetically. Hypothetically, the crew is dead. Most of them.”

“Well, ignorin’ for a second my own personal grief at my father HYPOTHETICAL murder,”

“He’s alive, actually. Uh, hypothetically. Well, NOT hypothetically. But um, also hypothetically.”

“Relax, Kid,” the Engineer said, “I’m just teasin’ you. Anyway, if his crew is dead, that’s half the job done.”

“Right, but how do I - well, how does a HYPOTHETICAL MERC IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE kill him? Like actually kills him?” Jeremy noticed he was leaning forward, his eyes open wide. He fell back. “Hypothetically.”

“Why, ya looking for tips?” The Engineer smiled.

“Just talkin, yaknow, casually.”

“I mean, Miller’s ain’t special.”

Jeremy wanted to argue, he wanted to say that Miller has the strength of five men and the firepower of ten of them, that the man has armour that can withstand a shot from a sniper rifle. That Miller will choke the life out of Jeremy before he could even aim the shot - and that’s if Jeremy would be LUCKY. “What if he was?”

“He ain’t.” the Engineer sounded so certain, and Jeremy wanted to believe him, so very much, “He’s just a merc like any other. We all have our weaknesses, don’t we? You just hit him where he's weak.”

“What if I can’t do that?”

“Then you learn how.”

***

Jeremy felt the burning in his lungs, and for the first time in a while, it wasn’t due to actual fire. Jeremy THREW the briefcase at the ground.

The announcement came almost immediately. “VICTORY!”

Through the pain and his shortness of breath, Jeremy roared. The administrator continued talking about battle analysis and just how many time each of them were shot to death. Her voice, as well as Jeremy own laboured heaving was white noise in his ear, overcome by a singular thought:

We did it. We did it. WE DID IT.

It was all a blur, memories of the last half an hour turning into a hazy mush. Jeremy remembered running INTO the BLU base, he remembered running OUT, he remembered Spy stabbing the enemy Engineer a moment after disabling his precious senetry, he remembered Demo blowing up the BLU Solider that tried chasing him. It was a mashup of twisting hallways, blinking lights, murder, and running. So much running.

“Those BLUs didn’t know what hit ‘em!” Demo called, patting ove Jeremy’s back and pulling him back into reality. “Good job, lad.”

“f*ck,” Jeremy let out, “let’s check what’s inside that briefcase.” he lifted his bat, ready to smash the lock, when Demo pulled the briefcase under him.

“No need for that.” Demo tinkered with the lock, entering a code Jeremy had no idea how he even came to know, and the brief fell open.

It was empty. Entirely empty.

“What the actual f*ck.” Jeremy called. “I almost died getting that thing! And I died trying to get that thing like, four times!”

“Aye”

“And it’s empty?”

“Nothin’ but the joy of victory here, lad.”

Jeremy hazard another look at the briefcase. The joy of victory looked a lot like air.

“That’s it? Nothing else?”

“The feeling of pride of a job well done?”

“What the f*ck am I supposed to do with that?”

Demo pondered this. “Drink?”

“What is even the point?”

Demo pondered this, too. “The paycheck?”

“This is the worst universe,” Jeremy mumbled.

“Yeah?” asked Demo, “then why are you still smiling, then?”

***

Jeremy woke up by the sound of Spy decloaking. He shook his head, then wiped his drool away. It wasn’t real sleep, just a little more than sitting with his eyes closed; Jeremy was left with only the fleeting notion of a dream. It was about… BEFORE, maybe? About his father? Jeremy could still see the figure of his father in his mind-

No, he could see the figure of his father right in front of him. Well, at least a VERSION of the figure of his father. “Bonjour,” said Spy, obviously upset at being caught, “and why are you awake?”

“Didn’t die in my sleep,” Jeremy said,

“What a shame.”

“Screw you.”

Spy flipped him off. It was a very elegant motion. This is the kind of a middle finger you get from a world renown ballerina. “I would advise you to go back to sleep.” he said. He pulled out the smallest mug Jeremy seen in his entire life. “Sleep in a bed, I mean.” Spy’s fingers danced around the coffee pot’s handle. “I presume Solider woke you up?”

Jeremy didn’t know why, but he hated the man was right. “No,” he said, “I just have an inter-universe jet lag,”.

“Charming. Your lying could use more work, Scout,” Spy ALWAYS called him Scout. Even when the cameras were off and it was just the two of them. Jeremy hated how thankful he felt for that. He watched how Spy lifted the coffee pot high above his tiny mug, and poured what might have been the smallest portion of coffee imaginable.

Jeremy waited till Spy took his first sip. “You know, none of us made that coffee,” he said, “It’s probably poison.”

For a men who might have just took a sip that could end his life, Spy was unbothered. He took another sip. “It is a fantastic tasting poison, then.”

It took two seconds for Jeremy to give up trying to understand how Spy was capable of taking multiple sips from a mug with the volume of a thimble. “Papa used to tell me not to drink something if I don’t know who made it,” he said.

“And why should I care what your PAPA used to say?” another sip. Doing the impossible never looked more condescending. Spy wore his mask- same as always. Beneath it was Jeremy’s father’s face, its features poking through the fabric.

Jeremy took a mental note to punch him later. “I’m going to punch you later,” he said, pointing at Spy.

“Consider me shaking in my haute couture made to order shoes,” Spy said. He took another sip. He was faking it, he had to have been. “Now go to sleep, you idiot, you are drooling all over the table.”

“Don’t wanna,” Jeremy slurred.

“And why is that?”

The words escaped his lips before Jeremy could stop them. “Don’t want to dream ‘bout Miller.”

“AH, Miller, again.” Spy said, and Jeremy made a mental note to punch HIMSELF later. “and why would he appear in your dreams?” he poured another cup.

Jeremy was too tired for this. Too tired to even look at the man. He buried his head in his hands. “f*ck,” he said. He took a deep breath.

One.

Zero.

Five.

Hellpoint.

Jeremy raised his head towards a curious Spy. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” he said, “you’ve been researching him since you learnt about him.”

“Mayhaps,”

“No, no mayhaps. I’m in this business too, remember?” I’m also a spy, I’m a cheating backstabber just like you and just like my father, ” I know how this works. You probably already have a folder on Miller or somethin’.”

Spy dug into one of his jacket’s pockets and produced a cigarette. “Folders.” he said, putting the cigarette in his mouth, “plural.”

“Good. So go re-read those and stop talking with me. ”

“Just trying to make conversation. And besides, I only know about OUR Miller. I’m missing a few key details.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, why do you want him dead?”

“How do you know - What, you’ve been eavesdropping on me?”

“No. Well, not recently. “

“So how do you know I want him dead?”

The cigarette moved as Spy smirked. “You just told me.”

Jeremy started. “f*ck!” he yelled.

“Oh pipe down. It’s only nine in the morning.”

Jeremy pressed his hands to both sides of his head. Maybe this way he can stop talking. “I’m so stupid.”

“Oui.”

“Not helping.”

“Not trying to.”

Sliding his palms up to his hair, Jeremy straightened his posture. “If you are so smart, tell me how to do it.”

Spy’s hand was again inside his jacket - looking for his lighter,probably- and it stopped still as he asked: “How to do what, exactly?”

“Kill him.”

Spy resumed his search. “Scout, I am not you, and therefore not in the habit of telling others how to do their jobs. “

“No, how would YOU kill him. How would a spy kill Miller.”

Spy pulled out his lighter. “A competent Spy?”

“Yeap.”

“Oh, is he?”

“Good enough not to use cheap tricks like cloaking devices and disguise kits.”

“Shame. All my plans involved CHEAP TRICKS. Maybe that spy can use his dignity to kill Miller, hmm? Stab him with STANDARDS and HONESTY. ”

Jeremy looked on as Spy tried to work the lighter. For a while, there was no noise in the kitchen but the sound of the lighters faint rasps and Spy’s futile attempts.

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

“Do you really have a plan?” Jeremy whispered, “I’ll use whatever. I don’t care.”

Spy stopped.

“I- well, non . Not a plan.”

“Course not,” Jeremy said, more to himself than to Spy, “you don’t actually know him.”

“I will if you will tell me.”

Jeremy opened his mouth, and then closed it; he opened it again, and closed it again. Words refused to come out. At least, not the words that mattered. Not the truth about Miller. Just -

“He’s big and he’s wearing armour all the time and hides somewhere, I don’t even know.”

Spy’s mask didn’t cover his eyes. Jeremy could not meet them.

“That is not a lot to go off of.” Spy said.

“Yeah, well, sorry I don’t have any FOLDERS to show you.”

Spy pushed the lighter back into his jacket. “There’s a spy who might know more about how to kill Miller than I do.”

“Who-” oh . “No.”

Spy picked the cigarette out of his mouth “I see. Why not?”

“I can’t.” Jeremy’s voice broke - his ‘I’ coming out throaty and wet.

Spy crumpled the cigarette in his hand. “Very well then. I shall be going now.” he rose up.

“Stop-.” that was all Jeremy could manage.

“Stop?”

“...Your coffee. You poured a second cup and haven’t even touched it..”

Looking down at his coffee cup, Spy said: “Ah, of course.” he sat down again, “how wasteful of me.”

Spies love silence. They revel in it. They let it engulf them. Let it take away all what should be said, but couldn’t.

***

“I didn’t. Shoot ‘im.”

“Well how did he get that hole in ‘is head then?”

“f*ck if I know.”

This had been going on for a while.

It was one of those payload missions. BLU tried to move it forward, RED tried stopping them. The BLUs pushed it through overtime - MULTIPLE OVERTIMES.

By the end, even the Administrator had enough. “OVERTIME. AGAIN. For god’s sakes,” she called, “get it over with.”

It was not a good day for any of them - RED keep dying before clearing out the payload, BLU managing to stay alive just to take claim on the payload and then dying. Jeremy considered going there and pushing the damn Payload himself, ANYTHING to get it moving, but then he got sawed in half by the BLU Medic who died to Demo not two minutes later.

Then there was only the BLU Pyro moving the payload, and then he got his head split open by a bullet.

The Administrator didn’t even wait for the body to hit the ground. “VICTORY, RED WINS!” she declared, and then - “thank GOD. I’m going for a smoke.”

Then RED went on to celebrate - which, after the day they had, meant collapsing in the living room and chugging tea - and the Engineer raised a toast in Sniper’s name.

“For breaking the tie and getting it over with!” The Engineer declared.

But then - “Wasn’t me.” Sniper said.

This brought upon RED their second exhausting, dead end battle of the day - Sniper insisting that the headshot didn’t come from him, and the Engineer insisting that yes, it did.

In Sniper’s defence, he “bloody well knows which shots I took”, but the Engineer had a point as well in “Well, son, who else here be shootin’ headshots with a Sniper rifle but you?”

“Maybe it was friendly fire,” Sniper said, “maybe the BLU one shot it.”

“Now why would he go and do that?”

“To get it all over with, most likely.” Spy said. He was standing next to Jeremy, cigarette unlit in his mouth. Spy always smoked after battle (and before it, and during) but now he was too exhausted to even light up his smoke. The cigarette stayed in his mouth, wet and crumpled. “I would have shot myself to end it,” he said, “I would’ve, “ he murmured, “if not for that respawn.”

“Makes no sense!” declared the Engineer, “this was a deliberate shot. Why go and shoot your own team?”

“Oh, trust me,” said Spy, his eyes piercing, “ a man can have his reasons. “

“Besides; he’s a hack,” said Sniper, “unprofessional piece of-”

“Couldn’t been Sniper.” Pyro suddenly called. “Scout killed him.”

“Hm,” Spy said, “did he now?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, shrugging, “shot the guy from the back. “ he made a shape of a gun with his hand, “zero range. Yaknow, Snipers, they don’t look back.”

“f*ck off,”

The idea was to clear the Sniper so the rest of RED can go forward and secure the Payload. When Jeremy got around to killing the man, half of the team were in respawn. And it really was just Soldier on the Payload, standing in clear view of the sniper’s nest. And, well, the Sniper was dead, but his RIFLE was still there. Then-

ONE

ZERO…

You know the rest.

“Must’ve killed him just after the shot,” said Sniper, “it happens.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is what it is, mate.”

The bickering continued - Sniper insisting that it wasn’t him, The Engineer insisting that it was; Pyro stared at the both of them, head in hand, enthralled; Demo was already asleep, his head back, snoring loudly; Soldier walked back and forth, practising his ‘left, right, left, right’ and getting the steps wrong every time; Heavy was deep in one of his books. No one looked at Jeremy.

No one but Spy, that is. Jeremy leaned in, mouthing “You’re welcome.” Then he leaned back, and winked.

***

The unexplained coffee pot reflected in the gas mask’s lenses. Pyro crooked his head at it, and the image turned into a harsh flare.

“Man,” Jeremy said, “can you go and wear somethin’?”

Pyro’s gas mask muffled his voice, causing the words to break and twist into what Jeremy assumed at first to be incoherent gibberish. It wasn’t, though. I am wearing something, Pyro said, pointing at the gas mask.

“I meant clothes. like pants.”

I am wearing pants.

People in this universe required an endless amount of patience. “No,” said Jeremy, “ those are boxers.”

Very short pants.

“Shorter than your actual underpants?”

It’s a stylistic choice. Doesn’t change the fact those are pants, anyway.

“You call that style?”

It's a deconstruction of societal norms, Scout.

“I’m about to deconstruct your face.”

Fine, then I’ll burn you alive.

What great fun this conversation turned out to be. “Then why are you wearing your mask, then? It’s Saturday morning, we don’t have work.”

I like wearing it.

“Sweating in skin tight rubber feels that great, huh?”

Pyro’s breathing wass audible, whooshing in and out of the gas filtering. Then there were slick sucking sounds, like Pyro was wetting his lips.

It filters things.

“Sure,” Jeremy said, defeated, “right.”

Pyro crooked his head. Jeremy could see himself in those black lenses, his reflection tired and angry looking. Scout, I have an observation. It’s not nice. But you should hear it.

“Yeah?”

You look awful.

“Yeah.”

And you are too quiet.

“I’m tired. That's all.”

Go back to sleep.

“No.”

Can’t help you if you act like an asshole.

“I don’t need you to help me.”

Pyro lifted one scarred hand and pointed at the coffee pot. Let’s get some coffee.

“None of us made it. It might be poisonous.”

It’s half empty. People drank from it. Now Pyro turned to Jeremy, and the latter wished he didn’t. The gas mask was not a pretty sight, unreadable and cold. Did anyone die?

“Not yet.”

Pyro turned again. Then it’s good enough to drink. He pulled a big mug from one of the cardboards, and poured about half of the remaining coffee into it. Then he added two teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dose of condensed milk. He took it to the table and sat down. He released a clasp at the side of his mask, and a thin tube popped up; one side was connected back into the mask, around where the mouth should be; the other, Pyro threw in the coffee.

There were a few dry sucks, but, slowly, the liquid began climbing up the tube.

“Gross.”

Pyro flipped him off.

Jeremy was reminded of Bae. She never wore her mask unless it was absolutely necessary. Even when she did, her words were still clear. Little shadow , she would say, voice echoing inside the mask, hand me that scalpel .

Killing Bae was never an option Jeremy considered. Death would be too kind for her.

Would it be too kind for Miller?

The liquid kept slowly climbing up Pyro’s drinking tube.

No. Even if by some miracle Miller would be in his mercy, Jeremy couldn’t. That was not the point. Jeremy didn’t want Miller to suffer, he just wanted him gone. He baulked at the realisation.

What’s up with you? Pyro said. The liquid in the tube was plummeting down back to the cup.

“I was just thinking-”

And you are surprised by the realisation you can. Understandable.

“f*ck you. I just thought about this guy I need to kill.” wait- “ Hypothetically.”

The gas mask lenses remained indifferent.

“And I’m not sure how -”

Fire.

“I didn’t even tell you who this guy is-”

Doesn’t matter. Use fire.

Jeremey’s face twisted in irritation. “What makes you think I even want your opinion?”

Scout. We are engaged in conversation. You talk, and I talk, and I don’t know much about conversation but I understand what we’re saying needs to be tangentially related.

“Whatever. Fire won’t work on him.”

Fire works on everyone.

Ok, maybe. But Jeremy didn’t want to use fire. He couldn’t - the setup alone required so much time and effort that Miller for sure would catch him in the act. And, regardless of what Pyro said, Jeremy could not help but KNOW that Miller would survive fire. That he would escape, somehow, or worse, that he would become a burning wall of doom crashing down on Jeremy’s head.

It’s very painful. Pyro mentioned. And VERY pretty.

It won’t work.

And it was not about pain.

“People can escape fires.” Jeremy said.

Pyro was finishing his coffee - the sucking sounds became frantic and inconsistent. It doesn’t matter how you do it. Pyro said. He put his hand to Jeremy’s chest - or, at least, close to it, hovering a few centimetres away. But I believe in you and I know you will overcome any challenges and gonna kill this hypothetical man so very dead. Pyro nodded, wisely.

“You really believe that?”

No. said Pyro, receding at once, But it sounds like the sort of inspirational crap a friend should say. Do you feel inspired?

Jeremy managed to half crack a smile. “In a way.”

Good. Said Pyro. Very good.

***

The Administrator's voice echoed in Jeremy’s ear. “DEFEAT!” she called, “BLU TEAM WINS!”

This had been the latest in a two day losing streak. Jeremy was shaking with irritation, and then annoyed at himself for even caring. He paced around the hallway outside of Scouts room for half an hour, fists clenched and his teeth at his lips. Originally, he was just trying to pass the time till he could go and take a shower - after everyone left, and Jeremy could be sure the showers were empty - but he forgot all about it, playing the battle over and over in his head.

This was how Spy found Jeremy - pacing and muttering to himself. “I can hear you all the way to my room” he called. ” He was fresh out of the shower, still in a bathroom robe and slippers. He was holding a half filled wine glass, and for once, with no cigarette in his mouth. If it wasn’t for the special bathroom balaclava - a stupid, water resistant mask he wore to the shower - Spy would have looked the exact same way as Jeremy’s father did, in his memories of BEFORE. “Stop it.”

“Make me.” Jeremy spat.

“I have just showered, Scout, I am NOT touching all of -” he gestured the wine glass up and down, “this. Now why are you so angry?”

“We lost.”

“I’ve heard.”

“We’ve been losing for days.”

“TWO days. The smalled amount that can be even be referred to as ‘days’, mind you.” Spy seemed bored. No; Jeremy could tell, Spy WAS bored.

“Shouldn’t you care more about losing?” It’s your job. Not mine.

“We lost. Tomorrow we’ll win.”

“Yeah, right. We’ll probably lose again and RED will fire all of us.” ALL OF YOU, Jeremy tried to remind himself.

“Doubtful.”

“What make you so sure?”

“Because, you CHILD, we are not contracted by RED. We are hired and managed by Fortress Industries.”

“We are?” Miller wasn’t.

“OUI. Redmond Mann thought to outsmart his brother by outsourcing his force for the gravel wars.”

“Fine! Fortress Industries will fire us!”

“You little-” Spy used his free hand to pinch at his nose. “Fortress Industries doesn’t want us to WIN.”

That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard , Jeremy thought, and was about to say it, too, when he remembered that when it came to THIS universe, the dumbest an idea is, the more likely it is the truth. “Why not?”

“Let’s say we win tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And so on and so forth.” Spy spun his wine glass. “Let’s say we win the whole war - every square metre of those godforsaken gravel mines. Then what?”

“We’ll get a raise?”

“No. THEN they will fire us. And, by extension, Redmond would stop paying Fortress industries, and trust that none of them wants THAT. Comprendre ?”

“So… It’s good that we are on a losing streak?”

“As long as we’ll win again, yes, it’s very good. And besides - only winning gets BORING. “ Spy smirked, “Trust me, I have a career of pristine victories. It’s very dull. We all need the challenge.”

“So… Losing is fun?”

“Absolutely not. It is humiliating and horrible. The fun begins with the opportunity to give this feeling to someone else. So, cheer up.”

Jeremy felt his fists unclench.

“And for f*ck’s sakes, go take a shower.” Spy said, turning away, “You reek.”

***

The Heavy barely acknowledge the mysterious coffee pot before moving his attention elsewhere. Didn’t pour himself a cup, didn’t ask questions, nothing; just silently turned away and opened the cupboard.

Jeremy didn’t like that. He couldn’t tell why, but Heavy ignoring the coffee pot has put him on edge. Like Heavy was breaking a sort of mould Jermy tried to fit this day into. Or maybe it was that the Heavy’s presence always put Jeremy’s on edge. He couldn’t help but feel those hands on his head, twisting it to snap his neck. Couldn’t help but see Miller and his awful grin. “There’s coffee.” Jeremy said, voice clearly agitated.

“DA. Heavy wants tea.” the Heavy stopped in his place. His body covered most of the wall he stood in front of, hiding the cupboards from Jeremy’s view. “Does little man want tea? Heavy’s treat.”

What should Jeremy say? If he’d say Yes, would the Heavy yell at him for treating him like the maid? If he’ll refuse, would the Heavy kill him for the insult?

“Maybe.” GREAT ANSWER . Jeremy SHOULD be killed for that.

The Heavy nodded. “Will make, just in case.” He took out a large cardboard box. It was yellow, and though Jeremy could not read the Russian writing, he recognized the picture of a tea cup in the middle.

The tea was dark, burnt orange. Not red exactly, but probably close enough. Heavy brought the two glasses - each with a matching coaster and a spoon. He put them down, then brought condensed milk and sugar. He added milk to his tea, but not sugar; after Jeremy refused his offer for milk, he sat down.

The ground shook with the sudden shift in weight.

The Heavy held his glass with his pinky finger raised high. For a while, he simply inhaled the smell of the tea, not drinking.

Jeremy sniffed his own cup. It smellt like burnt leaves and steam. He stared at the Heavy intently as the latter took the first sip.

“Little man is tired.”

“Soldier woke me up.”

“Soldier wakes Heavy up, too.”

What does he want? “And what do you do?”

“Choke Soldier. Go back to sleep.”

“Funny.”

“Not a joke. A- what is word in America? Tip.”

“Sure, next time I’ll tuckle a man that weighs twice than me and immediately take a nap afterwards. Very simple. Many thanks. If my neck gets snapped, I’m going after you next.” Jeremy didn’t mean to say the last line. It just came out, words pouring out of his mouth as if Scout’s hat was draining his common sense away. “Right. f*ck. Sorry.”

“Little man is being funny. Very good.”

“Very good?”

“Thought you are dying.”

“Dying?”

“Being very quiet. Only quiet when I’m dead, you said.”

Sounds about right.

“Well, can’t be dying if Doc isn’t here, right?” no, not DOC, Medic . Doc is gone.

“DA. Very big waste of terminal illness. So Scout not sick?”

Scout’s not Scout. “Just tired. And I can’t go back to sleep.”

The Heavy nodded. “Thinking?”

“Yeah yeah. I bet it’s very shocking, I’m thinking! What a discovery! Go ahead and laugh.”

The Heavy didn’t laugh. The Heavy didn’t smile. Didn’t frown, either. It was as if he was waiting for Jeremy to speak - to say something he hadn’t said. Patience, but not pressing, just present, like an immovable rock that is also a very good listener.

Should Jeremy - no, he shouldn’t. Mustn’t. Then again, who is better to know how to take down Miller than another Heavy?

Worst case, he’ll get killed. Respwan’ll take care of that.

“Let’s say there’s a guy you need to kill.” Jeremy said.

“Job?”

“No.”

“Revenge?”

“Sort of. “

“No sort of in revenge.”

“Ok. Sure. Revenge.”

“Very good.”

“Yeah, yeah, Parfit . So this guy, he’s big. Very big. Biggest guy in the room, ANY room. And he has a minigun, and if you try to lay a finger on you he will punch your own soul out of your body.”

The Heavy’s brows furrowed. “Is man me?” he pointed at himself.

Jeremy couldn’t have imagined ever feeling AWKWARD around the Heavy, but here you are. “Uh - no. Sorry.” he said, “A guy kind of like you. Another Heavy, actually.”

“BLU Heavy?”

Jeremy spent the next five seconds annoyed with himself for not making this connection sooner. “YES, exactly. BLU Heavy. How would you kill him?”

The Heavy considered this. He took his first sip from his tea, and swallowed, slowly. Jeremy had about two hundreds thoughts in his head, but when Heavy spoke, he said only one thing:

“Why come to Heavy with this question?”

“UH, well. Takes one to know one?”

“Is actually very easy to know Heavy. Big man. Mini gun. Punch.”

“Right, but I mean, I’m just looking for advice. I mean, you probably took down the BLU guy a ton of times.”

The Heavy nodded. His movements were slow, intentional. Jeremy could hear himself breathing in and out ten times until the nod was finished. “Not good job for Heavy. I shoot him, he shoot me, very bad, very boring. Not fun for Sasha.”

“Then who the hell kills this guy?”

“You.”

“YES, but -” wait; YOU was not Jeremy, was it?

“Da. Scout runs fast. Very annoying. Shoots and hits a lot. Gets whoever behind Heavy. Gets Heavy. Heavy’s too slow.”

“Well, doesn’t matter how fast I am.” Jeremy said, voice bitter and Miller’s voice in his ears, “I can’t outrun a bullet.”

The Heavy leaned in suddenly, hand reaching towards Jeremy’s head. Jeremy jumped so fast the chair fell back. “Heavy wanted to check forehead,” he said, “Scout might be sick.”

“I’m not sick.” And don’t you touch my head. “So lay off.”

The Heavy leaned back. “We had this talk,” he said, “I said, how you kill Heavy, you are very weak, and no strong gun like Sniper, and no sneaking like Spy. You said, I outrun bullet. I ask, how do you outrun bullet?”

Yeah, how?

“You said is trade secret.”

Of course he freaking did.

The Heavy put a finger to his head, “Heavy figured it out.”

Jeremy put all of his effort to sound nonchalant and uncaring. “Did ya?”

The Heavy nodded. “Scout is not faster than bullet. Scout is just faster than man holding gun.”

The world stopped. Jeremy’s own voice sounded weak, as if it came from a distance: “Right. Because it takes that BLU time to move so I get him in the turns.”

Heavy nodded. In truth, he didn’t look like Miller at all. Miller was a tad taller and Heavy was wider, with fat where Miller had hard muscles. Heavy’s hands were big, but not claw like like Miller’s were. He didn’t wear any armour, Jeremy suddenly remembered, not inside battle or otherwise. Heavy was calm.

For the first time, Jeremy let this peace wash over him, too. He sat again. “So, uh, since we are both awake an’ all,” he said, “wanna go do somethin’ after this?”

“Heavy will get exercise.”

“Oh yeah? What, we punching some sacks or whatever?”

“Stamina work. Jumping rope.”

Jeremy liked to jump rope. Doc said it was good for his health, too. Miller shut it down, though. Only girls jump ropes , Miller said, I thought you weren’t a girl.

Heavy isn’t Miller. Heavy isn’t an idiot. Said a voice inside Jeremy. “Sure,” he said, “let’s go jump rope.”

***

By the time Ma was got on the phone, Spy slinked away back into the base. “The heat is awful.” he told Jeremy.

For a moment, Jeremy considered just hanging up and running back into the base; he was about to, actually, but just as he took out the receiver away from his ear, he heard Vincent say: “Oh, Ma! There you are. Been nice talkin’ to you, Scout, but I gotta go help Donnie with the groceries.”

Then came another voice, one that froze Jeremy in place. “Scout?” a woman’s voice. Jeremy’s mother voice.

Spy didn’t sound exactly like Jeremy’s father - years of smoking made his voice hoarse, and the ever present sneer felt alien, too. The woman’s voice was different, though. It was just as it was BEFORE.

After what have felt like eternity, Jeremy finally said: “Yes, uh, Scout’s speaking.”

“Why are they calling you that?”

“That’s my nickname. I mean. Jeremy’s nickname. Your Jeremy. When he’s working. Scout.”

“Oh yeah? Thought he was a professional kille’, and here you are tellin me he’s been tying ropes and talkin to squirrels?”

“I think it’s scout because he runs before everyone and, um, scouts the battlefield?”

“I’m just messin’ with ya. How ya like this universe? Hope that stinkin’ loser spy doesn’t get to ya too much.”

“It’s pretty insane,” Jeremy said, the truth slipping out of his mouth before he could notice, “everything here is so - it’s really wrong.”

“Now that’s not fair, you only seen that base they haul ya’ll in. The rest of us are really nice, Promise, I - No, Vinny, don’t put the sugar away,” she suddenly said, “ I’m backing later- I’m making cookies,” she said to Jeremy, “Should I send you some?”

Jeremy’s fingers tangled around the phone cord. “Why?”

“Well, cause their good and if I keep them around the house I’ll eat them all, and the doctor told me to watch my sugar-”

“No-I,” Jeremy took a deep breath.

One.

Zero.

Five.

Hellpoint.

“Hell-what? Whatdya say?”

“Why do you care? About me. I’m not your son.” I’m barely the son of the Ma in the original universe.

The woman - SHEILA, because she was not Jeremy’s mother, said : “Well I have this interdimensional Sheila convention’, and we share tips about gettin’ the perfect perm and take oaths to watch over each other’s sons.”

That was a joke; Jeremy needed a real answer. “No, really.”

“Well, it’s kind of the truth.” said Sheila, “you might not be MY Jeremy, but you are who you are and I worry for ya. I’m sure the other Sheila the same way.”

Is she? Jeremy didn’t know. Jeremy would never know. He needed this to be over, quickly.

“OOF, talkin’ like this is makin’ my head hurt. How do you suffer through that multidimensional blabber?”

“It’s easier for me,” Jeremy admitted, “I just call Papa Spy. I mean, Not Papa.”

“OH, You bet your bottom he’s a not papa.”

“He’s a dick.”

“With that I can agree.”

Jeremy was about to say something along the lines of- ‘well, been nice talking to ya, but I don't like to be pulled into the memory of my own tragic past, so if we can just hang up and never talk again, that be great’ when, suddenly, Sheila resumed talking.

“Honey?” Sheila said, and Jeremy felt his chest tighten. “Are you really alright?”

“I’m great,” Jeremy said, a tad too quickly.

“Donnie doesn’t think so.”

“Well, I don’t know why. I told him I’m great. Because I am.”

“No,” Sheila’s voice was patience, accepting. Jeremy wished she would have been mad, instead. “Donnie said you told him that you were, and I quote, ‘Super ok. The best I’ve ever been. PARFIT.’ “ Sheila’s voice dropped, as if trying to mimic Jeremy’s own voice.

“Parfit means perfect,” Jeremy said, “and this is how things are here, perfect.”

Sheila sighed. “Look, sweetheart, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but please don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“You always over describe things when you try to cover somethin’ up.”

“That’s not me. That’s the other Jermey. Scout. He does that. I’m great. I’m just not used to talk to you.”

f*ck. Why would he say that? Why would he speak, at all? Miller was right, they should’ve tore his tongue out when-

“Yeah, Donnie told me you said somethin’ like that.” Sheila was silent for a bit. “Look, I can tell you really want this to be ove’, and I respect that, but I have to ask one last thing.”

“Alright.”

“Was it me?” Sheila ask, “Did I hurt you, back then?”

It was an innocent question. Jeremy could have lied. Should have lied, should’ve push this small talk to its inevitable end and get on with his day. He didn’t.

Later, Jeremy would swear to himself it was the heat, the burning Tuefort sun burning away whatever shred of decency he might have had. In the moment, though, he didn’t notice the sun at all. He just thought about this other Sheila, this other MA, sitting there, thinking she hurt her son so badly he never talks to her. “It wasn’t you,” he said, dryly. “It was me.”

Then the flood gates open

Jeremy never talked about AFTER. Never told a soul about Miller’s crew, not in any way that really matters. Yet here he was, telling this woman he technically have just met all of it -The way the bullet felt piercing his skull, the coldness of the operating table when Jeremy opened his eyes again. The times in FROZEN HELL, the doc, the lessons with Virgil, the radio from Fred, the snide remarks from the one eyed spy, Bae’s insults, and the way Miller laughed as he grabbed at his head and pulled him away. He told her about Sydny. About his life after that. Told her about Gray Mann and his stupid mission and told her about the RED base.

By the end of it, Jeremy was sitting on the ground, head flat against the colum of the phone, his cheeks wet. “It wasn’t you.” he said, crying, “It was never you. I want to go back,” he admitted, for the first time out loud, “I want to, I want to. I can’t. “

“Why not?”

“They want Jeremy,” the voice was broken, hollow, DEAD, “and he’s gone.”

“I don’t know them,” Sheila said, “and I don’t know about this dimensional travel hoo ha, but I do know my son is currently in another dimension and I would like him back. Trust a mother on this, honey. They don’t want ‘Jeremy’; They want YOU.”

***

Jeremy drained the rest of the coffee and washed the mysterious coffee pot. It stayed in the kitchen, hauled in one of the cupboards.

That was five days ago.

Right now, Jeremy was busy contesting the point. To be more precise, Jeremy was busy trying to choke the BLU Heavy to death with his bat, and if that Heavy will die, like Jeremy hoped he would, it would have the added value of the RED team capturing the point.

Jeremy had been on the BLU Heavy trail like a bloodhound on a scent. The Heavy was strong, and his Minigun could tear Jeremy to shreds within seconds, but he was slow, and he could not look up. Jeremy would throw himself at it, again and again, barely aiming, never quiet, and always, always moving. He actually got that Heavy a few times, even though seven times outta ten Jeremy would end up dead. Doesn’t matter, he’d been practising. He would turn those odds.

The BLU Heavy’s voice came out loud and broken, quick shouts in between pushing the bat handle away from his neck. After a stream of Russian curses, came the first coherent sentence: “WHY- ARE YOU - TARGETING - ME?”

Jeremy pulled at the bat, “Nothing personal, big guy,” he said, “practising for revenge”

“Revenge?”

“Yeah. And some other things. There’s this big guy I’m want to kill when I’m getting back, and you look just like him.”

“Want - Advice?”

“Sure - por la l'amour de merde would you die alread-”

The BLU Heavy threw Jeremy off his back, and launched forward. Holding one hand to Jeremy’s neck, he lifted the other, in a curled, tight fist. “Here advice. You talk too much. Gives time for opponent to get away.”

“I-See.” Jeremy managed, “Thanks.”

The nails welted into the Heavy’s brass knuckles sparkled in the sun. “Anytime,” he said, and smashed Jeremy’s head in.

RED ended up winning that match, actually. Lost the Match afterwards, and the last one ended in a tie. Jeremy was about to turn to his room to try and pass the time until the showers were clear, when Sniper found the corpse.

Corpses were never an unusual sight in the RED base - Jeremy actually run into his own corpse once or twice - and usually what you did was to kick it out of the way till Respwan will wash it away, or you go around its pockets to steal ammo. Corpses are fine as long as they were from BLU or RED.

The corpse in question, however, was wearing green.

“Who in the bloody hell is that?” Sniper asked.

Jeremy didn’t recognize the man, or, at least, what’s left of the man’s face. But he recognize the cuts, the drilled holes, the chemical bones along the size of the mans arm. He remembered them from the corpses he had to dismember and prepare for cremation back at FROZEN HELL.

The man’s identity might have been a mystery, but Jeremy knew the identity of his killer very well.

“Bea,” he whispers, too low for anyone else to hear, “Miller’s Bea.”