Chapter Text
***
Victory is meant to taste sweet. It’s meant to feel good, a rush of adrenaline and dopamine to reward the brain for a job well done. It’s something of a high, swift and trembling. Add a cash payout of $10 million to the mix, and the thrill was unparalleled.
Team Fortress Classic…they had won. In every sense of the word. Team Fortress was defeated, Gray Mann was dead, the Administrator was nothing but dust beneath the ground, and the old mercenaries had in their possession a machine that was precious beyond compare: Gray Mann’s Life Extender, ripped from the frail man’s body.
However, the old team didn’t escape completely unscathed. Greg and Ross, the Soldier and Scout, had perished, succumbing to an inferno of the rejected Pyro’s design. Not that their deaths mattered. They were dead weight.
The money, the Life Extender, and a Conagher. Team Fortress Classic had almost everything they needed. All that was left was to locate more Australium, the precious metal needed to complete the seven Life Extenders Fred was set to build. His family had a history with machines like this, though his craft was crude compared to his father’s. Regardless, he managed, with bruised fingers and purple knuckles.
To ensure their safety and privacy, Team Fortress Classic returned to an old base of theirs. There was nothing left for them at Gray Gravel Co., so they squirreled themselves away on the old stomping grounds of the Gravel Wars - Teufort. With Team Fortress out of the picture and the Gravel War’s legacy growing bleaker by the second, Teufort was empty. It was perfect, perfect for Team Fortress Classic to hide away, perfect for Fred to build the Life Extenders in peace, perfect to find a lead on the remaining Australium deposits, perfect for finding
Him.
The base was dark, left to rot after Gray Mann’s takeover of Mann Co. When Team Fortress had been fired, nothing had been done to keep Teufort in working order, so the old mercenaries were forced to work without light, at least until they could kickstart the base’s generator. Though that seemed increasingly unlikely as the hours ticked by, and as the base grew colder into the night.
That didn’t stop Fred. The old Engineer was leaned over his workbench, his cold hands numbly palming an empty machine. He let out a breath and set aside a small screwdriver, his fingers aching after hours of work.
“Are you almost done?” came the gruff voice. Cheavy was in the room alongside Fred, bandaging up his bloody hands while Fred worked.
“Yeah, they’re all done,” Fred sighed, his breath a puff of vapor. He glanced down at the Life Extender in his hands - and at the six others laid out on the workbench in front of him. “But, I have to ask…there’s only six of us left. Our Soldier and Scout aren’t here. So why am I making seven of these?”
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Fred flinched at the terseness in Cheavy’s voice and lowered his head, a cold sweat making him tremble.
“You know why, Fred.”
Fred brought a hand to his mouth, hoping to warm his numb fingers against his cracked lips. “You’re still on that? Boss, I don’t know if it’ll work. We don’t even know where he is.”
“Why do you think we’re here?” Cheavy asked, gritting his frozen teeth. “He was last seen around Teufort. We’re bound to find a lead.”
“That was 30 years ago, boss,” Fred murmured. His hands were still purple. The cold only seemed to make the bruising worse. “We don’t know what happened. I know you and him were close, but-”
His words were yanked from his throat. Fred was seized by his collar and torn from his chair, and he met the blue gaze of his boss. It was glassy and hot. The old Heavy burned.
“We’re gonna fucking find him, Fred. One way, or another.”
Cheavy let Fred go, shoving him back into his chair. Cheavy turned and cradled his bandaged hands. Red came through white. He muttered something, and stalked towards the exit.
Fred bit his tongue, his heart momentarily stopping in his chest. He wanted to talk, but there was nothing he could say to dissuade the bereaved Heavy. They had the Life Extenders, but no Australium to power them. Without the precious metal, the Life Extenders were just paperweights.
What exactly did Cheavy plan to do with useless junk?
Fred didn’t say anything. He just turned back towards the workbench, the empty Life Extenders taunting him with hollow flasks. He flexed his hands once more, grimacing at the spikes of ice that stabbed at his fingers. Damn, why was it so cold?
“...It’s getting late,” Cheavy whispered, clearing his throat. “The machines are done, right? We should get some rest. We can revisit this in the morning. With everyone out of the picture, we’ve got time to do this.”
The door creaked open, and Cheavy’s footfalls faded out of earshot. Fred sighed once more. His breath was stone in his lungs. This was all happening too fast, he thought. One moment they were working for Gray Mann to locate the Administrator, the next they were fighting tooth and nail with Team Fortress, the next…none of it mattered. They were mercenaries, until they weren’t. They were in Gray Mann’s employ, until they weren’t. They were searching for the Administrator, until they weren’t.
The Gravel War didn’t seem to matter anymore. Mann Co., Gray Gravel Co., the Mann family, the Hale family, the long lineage of teams hired by RED and BLU…it meant nothing. All that mattered now were these Life Extenders, and whatever Cheavy was planning with them. Whatever Cheavy was thinking, bringing them back to Teufort. All that mattered now was this base, and everything within its concrete walls.
It almost seemed pointless to focus on anything except the here and now.
Another knock at the door, and Fred heard another set of footsteps join him. He recognized the staggered footfalls.
“Fred,” said the gravelly voice. “Come on, it’s midnight. You’ve gotta get some rest.”
“I’m not tired, Virgil,” Fred murmured.
“Like hell you are. I can see it, Fred,” Virgil retorted. There was a soft metallic clinking, and Fred knew the old Sniper was tapping his prosthetic eyes. “You’re cold.”
“Everything’s cold in here,” Fred said.
Virgil came to Fred’s side and laid a hand over the old Engineer’s shoulder. Fred instinctively reached back and touched the gloved hand “All the more reason to get some sleep.”
“Virgil,” Fred started, looking up at his old friend. “You’ve told me you can’t sleep with those eyes I gave you.”
A half-hearted shrug. “So what if I can’t? I can do without.”
Fred frowned and turned back to his workbench. “The boss is pissed.”
“I heard him,” Virgil concurred, patting Fred’s shoulder. “But tell me something. Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”
Fred’s numb hands reached for a set of blueprints. The very ones he’d used to build Virgil’s eyes. “...Would you want me to do that?”
“You already plucked out my eyes. I trusted you enough for that. I think I’d be ok if you did all this, too.”
Fred felt a soft peck at the back of his neck. For a moment, his shaking heart slowed.
“...Just give me a few minutes,” Fred said. “I’ll head to bed soon.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Virgil said gruffly. He gave Fred one more pat on the back, and his footsteps retreated.
Once more, Fred was left alone. Alone with empty machines, and a promise of life left unfulfilled.
“I don’t know if we can find him, boss,” Fred murmured softly, laying his head over his arms. “I don’t even know if doc is still alive…”
***
It’s cold.
Very cold.
The stone is numb.
Everything is black.
Monochrome…did the world always look like this?
There’s scratching. Scratching beneath the earth.
Someone’s knocking. Knocking? Who are they knocking for?
I’m sorry, I can’t answer. I haven’t been able to answer in a long time.
I wonder…how long has it been?
I can’t remember. It hasn’t been long, has it?
There’s a heartbeat. A heartbeat…who does it belong to?
I taste metal.
I feel ice.
My eyes hurt.
My body feels long.
Concrete. Fused with my arms.
My veins are heavy.
The birds don’t come to me anymore.
Even the worms don’t like me.
I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep.
My head hurts.
I’m hungry.
My stomach is gone.
The soil tastes awful. The rocks crack my teeth.
Where did everyone go? I don’t want to be here anymore.
There must be somewhere I can go.
Somewhere…somewhere warm. Somewhere I can be safe.
Somewhere I can help people.
I’m…I’m a medic. A medic. Yeah, that’s right. I’m a medic.
I…I think I had a team. An entire team. They dressed like me. All in blue.
These were my friends. I miss them. They must miss me, too.
I can go to them. I want to be with them again.
If I’m with them, maybe I won’t be cold anymore.
I want my friends. I want my friends. I want my friends. I want my friends.
I can feel them. I can feel their thoughts.
Just follow the trail.
I can find them.
I’m going to find them.
Why is the sky breathing?
***
Cheavy hadn’t seen this bedroom in awhile. Then again, he hadn’t been inside Teufort in decades.
His old bedroom was sparsely furnished, and that was a nice way of putting it. It was just a bed, a single blanket, a nightstand, a lamp, and an empty closet. Teufort must’ve been picked clean after Gray Mann’s takeover.
Whatever. Cheavy just needed some sleep. As long as he had a bed, he could make do.
He locked the door. He always locked the door. He didn’t like people walking in while he slept. He felt vulnerable like that.
So he locked the door. He locked it tight. He double checked. A deadbolt, a barrel bolt, and a chain lock. No one could disturb his sleep. Not that there was anyone who could.
Cheavy removed his goggles and bandana, setting them aside on the nightstand. He clambered into the bed and pulled the blanket on top of him. It was a sheet of ice, but he was fine with that. He burned hot, and the ice was welcome.
He laid on his back, sinking into the stiff mattress. He faced the door, his eyes gliding over the locks. Everything was locked. He made sure of it.
All that was left was to sleep. So he closed his eyes, making sure he slept while facing the door. No one could get in. He locked the door. He always locked the door.
Time means nothing when you sleep. A blink, and an hour passes. Five hours. Ten. Twenty. Forty. Eighty. Dusk and dawn, sunrise and sunset. The “moon” left, leaving the sky a sheet of pitch. It was oily and slick. It reeked of soot.
He slept, but his slumber was light. Even the tiniest noise woke him, and he’d open his eyes to see that locked door. A deadbolt, a barrel bolt, and a chain lock. Nothing had moved. No one was inside.
He fell back asleep. Another noise. He opened his eyes. The door was still locked. A deadbolt, a barrel bolt, and a chain lock. Nothing had moved. No one was inside.
He fell back asleep. Another noise. He opened his eyes. The door was still locked. A deadbolt, and a barrel bolt.
He closed his eyes. Irritation was wearing on him. Who the hell was making that noise?
Another noise. He opened his eyes. The door was still locked. A deadbolt.
Cheavy rolled onto his side. He could still see the door, but the locks were out of sight. He was sure everything was locked. He always locked the door.
The noises stopped. He strained his eyes for a minute, but all was silent. Hm. Someone must’ve been moving around outside. Maybe it was Fred heading to bed. Or Cspy patrolling the halls.
He sighed and rolled onto his back. He looked at the door again. Still locked.
He was exhausted. He needed sleep.
He closed his eyes and was determined to keep them closed.
***
It’s cold. Very cold. But there’s warmth here. It burns. It's glassy and hot. It’s familiar. Yes, very familiar. He wanted that warmth. He wanted it.
And these thoughts…he could feel them. They were buzzing and angry. Spitting mad. There was dopamine, too. Glee. Pride. Satisfaction. Frustration. Exhaustion. Obsession.
Love. Burning love. Scarred love. Grieving love. Familiar love.
Yes…yes, I remember this. I know these thoughts. It’s the boss. Our Heavy. My Heavy. He’s still warm. He’s burning. I want that. I want to be close. I want to be with my beloved again. I want to hold him. I want to hear his voice again. I want my Heavy.
There’s a door here. It’s locked. A deadbolt, a barrel bolt, and a chain lock. Yes, I remember. He doesn’t like sleeping with an open door. He felt vulnerable like that.
It’s in my way. I want in. He won't mind if I unlock the door.
His thoughts are angry again. They feel sharp. It cuts me when I get close. What’s wrong? Is he upset? Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here. He’s probably tired. He always gets pissed when he’s tired.
The door’s unlocked now. I can get in. I want inside. But I can’t make too much noise. I’ll try to be quiet…
This room. I remember this room. Me and the boss shared it. We slept together. He was warm. Burning. He gave me that warmth. I was never cold with him.
I taste vinegar. It's all over my tongue. I can’t spit it out. Not with this mask on.
I want to be close. I want to lay beside him. I want to be warm. I’ll just be quiet…
***
Another noise. Cheavy opened his eyes again.
The door was open. The locks were gone. No deadbolt, no barrel bolt, no chain lock.
A surge of adrenaline sparked in him. Staring at that yawning maw, the hollow socket seemed to stare back. He could see the base’s innards. The pipes, the vents, the arteries, the lungs. He could hear the base breathing, every rise and fall.
He tried to jump up, to close the door and lock it before anyone came inside.
His arms were frozen, melted into the mattress. His body was ice. His veins felt heavy, and he could taste soil, acrid and foul.
He could see his nerves writhing on his skin. Contracting, fiery, clawing at his limbs to force him to move.
They were yellow. Bright, loud yellow. Spindly and thin, trying to escape his flesh.
There was a weight on his chest. He opened his mouth to gasp, but no breath came. His lungs were flat. His lungs were gone. He clenched his jaw, an airy hum-buzz ringing in his ears.
His eyes darted around, rolling in his sockets in a bid to find the intruder. He locked the doors, he always did, but someone had come inside.
The deadbolt, the barrel bolt, the chain lock. They had been thought away, buried somewhere out of sight, out of mind.
His adrenaline had nowhere to go, so he laid there, trembling in the mattress. His throat closed up. His heart was a brick in his chest, laying flush against his ribs. Unable to take a breath, the old mercenary saw red creep into his vision. A vermeil sheet that stunk of mercury.
Was this some kind of heart attack? A stroke? At his age, it wasn’t unexpected, but the misfortune gnawed at him. A taunt from life, was it? A mocking “tsk tsk?” One last “fuck you,” right as he was on the cusp of finding him?
You remember me? Oh, I’m so glad. I was afraid your thoughts had turned empty.
Someone was laying in bed with him.
His nerves were screaming, and his muscles contracted at once, forcing him to look away from the door and towards his bedmate.
The figure was sallow and sunken, limp across the mattress. Fettered in camouflage and kevlar, he was a mere outline in the bed. A gloved arm was slung across Cheavy’s chest, numbly palming him in a fumbling grasp for a bedside embrace. An obscured face was rested on his shoulder, hidden by a breather and a black ballistic helmet. Cheavy recognized the symbol on the helmet. A medical insignia, simple and dark.
He laid as though he had been sleeping, cradling the old Heavy with cumbrous tenderness. He was nestled atop the blanket and using Cheavy as a pillow. He looked comfortable.
Cheavy’s lungs came back to him, tattered and weak. All he could let out was a breath. A single meek word.
“...Doc?”
Hi, boss. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.
Cheavy could hear the words in his head. A foreign thought, pressing against his mind. A wave of ice crawled across his skull, and the hum-buzz grew louder.
I was cold. I hope you don’t mind me lying here. We used to share this bed. Remember that? I remember. I loved lying in bed with you. You always kept me warm.
He could smell vinegar. It laid thick in the air. A cloud of sulfur, clinging to the walls. The wallpaper shrivelled and peeled, coiling to the floor. His nerves did the same, husking themselves from his skin.
A new weight came, and the kevlar shade rose. He leaned over Cheavy, the pitch never leaving his face. Frozen hands cradled Cheavy’s constricted neck, squeezing his veins and arteries.
Is something wrong? You feel cold, too. I missed you. Did you miss me too? Is that why you’re still? You feel hollow. Your ribs are brittle.
I love you. Cheavy thought it, through a delirious cloud. Yes, I missed you. It’s been lonely without you. No one could replace you.
He hoped his thoughts could reach far enough. Without a throat, it was hard for words to do the work.
I’m so glad. How long has it been?
Time meant nothing when you slept. Without the “moon,” Cheavy couldn’t say.
You don’t know? Oh, that’s unfortunate. But, then again…I guess it hasn’t been too long.
It’s been too long, for me. My hands are red. I tried to bandage them, but it’s not working. I can’t feel the nerves. Not like you can.
Poor thing. You need your Medic, don’t you? It’s ok, I’m here. I’ll make sure you’re put back together.
The figure moved closer, clasping Cheavy’s face between gloved hands. The shade seemed to shiver, his outline blending into the ceiling.
Cheavy was numb, but he leaned into the familiar touch. Just a moment more…
I’m still cold. Please…can I come closer?
There was a fog, fuzzy and thick. But Cheavy managed to nod. He wanted his medic back. He wanted doc back.
His teeth felt like glass.
He learned down and brushed his fingers against Cheavy’s lips. It was stone, cold and slick.
Nerves erupted around Cheavy’s mouth, and the old Heavy pulled back. Strings lashed his teeth, and his gums turned white. His tongue fell slack, he could feel soil in his mouth. Crumbly and sour.
His hands melted into the mattress. His nerves lit up again. Bright, loud yellow. Lightning ran up and down his arms. There were wires in his muscles, swelling with adrenaline. His spine was wracked, spasming against the bed. A ripcord pulling at his brain, scraping for escape.
The door was still open. A deadbolt, a barrel bolt, and a chain lock. There was nothing there. If he could just get up…
Oh…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. You’re hurt. You won’t stop trembling. You’re not warm anymore. It’s ok, it’s ok. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix this.
Gloved hands grasped Cheavy’s face. Icepicks dug into his skin, reaching into the cracks between the muscle, where the ruptured nerves writhed. His eyes were pulled open, until they couldn’t open any further.
The ice burned. Lidocaine flushed his eyes, accompanied by dopamine. Serotonin. Oxytocin. Endorphins. His face tingled numb. The nerves laid still. The cloud turned silver.
He heard a crack, wet and glossy. He tasted blue. He saw doc over him, a chasm where his face should have been.
H e f e l t h a p p y
There. Do you feel better? You’re still cold, but you stopped trembling. How do you feel?
…
Good, good. I’m so glad.
...
…I’m still cold. Can you hug me?
***
A shock of cold woke Fred from his nap. The old Engineer rose with bleary eyes, still hunched over his workbench. Shit, he must’ve fallen asleep like this. He told Virgil he’d meet him in bed, but he’d gone and passed out before he could.
His hands were stone, numb with cold. It was enerverating.
He fumbled for a nearby digital clock. Bringing it to his eyes, he was sure he had overslept.
It was still midnight.
The “moon” was gone. The sky stunk of ash.
Fred sat up, furrowing his brow.
“Midnight? I guess I didn’t sleep as long as I thought…” He set the clock down and rubbed the cobwebs from his face. “Damn, my back is killing me. I guess the generator is still off. Gregg must be having trouble with that. The team Demoman knew his way around explosives, but maybe the power grid was above his pay grade."
Fred slid out of his chair, his prosthetic legs creaking under his weight. The metal was nearly frozen, he could see mist rising from the joints.
He left the workshop and descended the gloomy halls. The metallic hum of distant machinery made the walls shake, and the floor gave in certain places. The vents overhead contracted, then relaxed. Servers mumbled in a corner, somehow still running despite the dead generator.
The base breathed, a pair of lungs expanding deep beneath the concrete.
Fred passed by numerous empty rooms before arriving at a threadbare bedroom. There was nothing inside but a sparsely furnished bed, a nightstand, and a hollow closet.
Virgil was inside. He was sitting lethargically on the edge of the bed, still clothed in his oversized coat and rimmed hat. He leaned lazily on his rifle, clutching it against his shoulder. His eyes were lidded, and the mechanical glint of the thermal pupils shone dimly in the dark room. He was in a daze, getting what little sleep his all-seeing eyes would allow.
The soft mechanical clink of Fred’s legs was enough to rouse the old Sniper. Virgil blinked and smoothed out his beard, shaking off sleep.
“Fred?” Virgil inquired grimly, casting a sidelong glance at the old Engineer.
“Sorry, I dozed off,” Fred apologized, slipping off his hard hat. He let out a fatigued sigh, his breath turning to vapor. “I can’t be the only one that thinks this is crazy. I was lucky I was able to recreate those Life Extenders, but they’re useless without Australium. I don’t know where we’re gonna get more, or if there even is more.”
Virgil frowned deeply and glanced at the adjacent wall. He was scratching his fingers against the barrel of his rifle, and his leg bounced at the knee. A pit of unease settled into Fred’s stomach, and he followed Virgil’s gaze.
“Virgil? Is something wrong?”
The old Sniper blinked again and squinted, struggling to focus on something. “I’m…not sure. Fred, I see damn near everything with these eyes. Even my own eyelids. There’s nothing I can’t see. But…”
Fred came to Virgil’s side and sank into the mattress. He took Virgil’s face between his frozen hands and examined the metallic eyes. “Is there something wrong with them? I know you had a bad tussle with Team Fortress’s Sniper and Spy-”
“It’s not that,” Virgil scowled, hanging his head. “I can see through the walls. Everyone’s heat signature is familiar to me. I know what the team looks like, even from here.”
“I know. I made sure the thermal imaging in your eyes was state-of-the-art. I made sure they were perfect,” Fred concurred. He paused, watching as the metal eyes turned wet and purple. “Virgil, what’s wrong?”
Virgil turned back to the wall, staring beyond the concrete. He was pale, almost sickly.
“I’m not sure. I think it’s the boss. I can’t see him.”
Fred sat back, pressing his mouth into a thin line. “That’s…maybe it’s the cold?”
Those wet eyes glanced down at Fred, disaffected. “Even when it’s cold, the human body still gives off heat. Unless hypothermia sets in. But it ain’t cold enough for that.”
Fred flexed his hands again. His fingers were ice, but he could still dimly feel his veins.
“What…what do you mean you can’t see the boss anymore?”
“Exactly what I said. I could see him lying in his bed, and then…” Virgil raised his hand and pointed to a vague spot on the wall. His fingers were bruised. “...Nothing. I saw blue for a moment, but that’s it. It’s like he vanished.”
“That’s not possible,” Fred murmured.
“I know. And I’m hoping it’s just these eyes,” Virgil said, tapping his pupils. He leaned down and took Fred’s hands. The old Sniper was trembling. “Tell me: is there something wrong with my eyes?”
“Have you had any other problems?” Fred inquired. He pulled back Virgil’s eyelids, just enough to see where the circuits met soft flesh.
Virgil nodded slowly, his neck stiff and aching. “Ever since we got here, actually. I know Teufort was our old base, but…I’ve felt sick since we got here. It doesn’t feel right. The base feels like it’s breathing.”
“Breathing?”
Virgil rested his hands over his rifle, clutching it like a lifeline. He watched the wall, his eyes held captive by something beyond the concrete. “That’s the only way I can describe it…”
Fred turned to the wall. He could smell vinegar. Ash bubbled from the floor.
“The boss was pretty pissed when he left. We can check on him. If he’s ok, I’ll take a look at your eyes.”
Virgil nodded and rose from the bed, the frame creaking as it was relieved of its burden. “Damn cold…Gregg’s still working on the generator. He’s been at it for the last few hours.”
Fred offered his shoulder for Virgil to lean on. “This place hasn’t been in commission since Mann’s robots trashed the place. I don’t imagine the generator’s working too well.” Fred returned his hard hat to his skull. The plastic had already turned to ice, and it sent a shiver down his spine. “I’ll take a look at it here soon. Come on, let's check on the boss.”
***
Further down. Past the stomach of the base, where the stone bowels wound across wires and servers. A large, out-of-date generator sat in disrepair. Cables twisted into the ceiling, decayed and dusty. Gregg, the team Demoman, was crouched over the generator, muttering to himself as he dug into the machine’s corroded internals.
“How the hell did I get stuck doing this?” he muttered, his lips blue and cracked. Fog crept across his visor, and he irritably wiped away the frost. He’d done it so many times, muscle memory had already set in.
His petrified fingers clumsily worked through the fried wires, but he was no closer to fixing the shot generator. The seconds ticked by, and it only seemed to grow colder. Gregg hissed and stole back his hand. He struck his palms against his thigh a few times, shocking his veins into flushing with blood. A distant sense of warmth came back to his fingers, and he reached back into the machine. A few seconds, and his hands were raw, varying shades of spruce and slate. He swore, stole his hand, and struck them against his thigh once more. The sting drove the cold back, and he reached into the generator again.
He was losing dexterity by the second, and the painful arthritis that already plagued his fingers made the job insurmountable. He couldn’t grab anything. It hurt to take the wires, and the electric snap of metal made his hands quake. The tremors denied him a delicate touch. He could barely hold a hammer like this.
His knuckles were blotchy, and the moldy stench of iron was rubbed deep into his skin. His knees ached, rubbed raw and red beneath his clothes. He’d been knelt for so long, his legs had grown heavy. He could see blood seeping through the kevlar and cotton. His legs might as well been part of the floor, fused with mortar and cement.
***
So strange. It’s even colder down here. I don’t like that. I don’t like it down here.
But I have to. I can feel warmth down here. It doesn’t burn, not like you did. But I still recognize it. It’s one of my friends. I want my friends.
It's dim. He’s cold, too. Oh, maybe I can warm him up. I can try. I don’t want him to be cold. It’s not pleasant. I’ve been cold for a very long time.
He’s probably miserable down there. He’s trying to fix something. Did you ask him to do that?
I want to help. I don’t want him to be cold. I don’t want him down there.
It’s dark down here. He’s probably scared. I can help. I’ll get him out. I’ll make sure he’s happy. He’ll be happy. He’s my friend. I’m his friend. I want him to be comfortable. He’s worked too hard. I’ll help him relax.
There’s a machine here. It won’t turn on. It’s ok, that’s ok. You don’t need it. You won’t need it. Not while I’m here. I’m all you will need. I promise.
***
Gregg heaved for breath, his lungs like boulders in his chest. He wiped a cold sweat from his brow. Damn, it was freezing down here, and yet he was sweating like a damn pig. He was clammy and crisp all at once, perspiring under a recessed blizzard.
He stole his hand back and struck it against his thigh. His palms were snow white, and his fingers were sprained blue. His fingernails were chipping down. Fucking shit, what the hell was wrong wish this generator?
“Shit, I can’t do this,” Gregg swore. He reclined back on his legs, grinding his teeth as his bones settled back into place. He brought his purple hands to his mouth and breathed, hoping the vapors would warm his frozen digits. “Dammit, Fred. It’s too cold to get anything done. And this generator is shot to hell. Ain’t no fucking way I can get this done…”
You’re cold too? Oh, I’m glad it's not just me.
A breathy chill came down Gregg’s spine. Frost cracked across his visor, making him involuntarily jump. A gasp leapt from his throat, sleet falling from his lips. He whirled around, facing the yawning hallway that stretched on behind him. It was a chasm, lined with darkness so thick it became tangible, oily and rank. Sulfur and acid, gunpowder and nitroglycerin. Gregg immediately recognized the acrid chemicals, pungent and mephitic.
Alarm bells rang in his head, and the old Demoman tried to jump up, to locate those loose fumes before the entire base buried him alive. But he couldn’t. His legs had melted to the floor, fusing with rock and soil. The flesh was frozen, white with frost.
“Who’s there!?” Gregg shouted with hoarse lungs. “Dammit, whoever’s spilling chemicals, you’re gonna bring the whole base down on top of us!”
I’m sorry. I was just trying to make you comfortable. I missed you, Gregg. It’s been awhile.
Gregg swallowed hard. His saliva was vinegar, bitter. A hum-buzz closed in around his eyes, cupping his head in a duvet of hazy droning. He flinched and tried to cover his ears, but the noise followed him into his thoughts.
He could see his nerves. He could feel his nerves. They writhed on his skin, twisting and coiling in his muscles. They swelled. They were trying to escape, squirming through the cracks in his body.
“...Doc?” Gregg choked out, his throat squeezing shut. “Wha - I don’t get it. How - how are you here? You’re supposed to be-”
He caught himself. He couldn’t feel his throat anymore. He could taste soil, it was tart and spoiled.
There was something writhing across his palette.
He gagged and covered his mouth, clawing at his tongue. He couldn’t get the taste out of his mouth. It coated the back of his throat, it cut his teeth, but there was nothing there. His fingernails scraped his tongue, gouging the small muscle until it came back red.
“Ghk - shit, doc! What the hell is going on!?” he pleaded meekly, his words muffled by his distended tongue.
Shh, shh. Please don’t cry or scream out. You’re hurt. You’re missing your tongue. I’d hate for you to lose your voice.
Gregg clammed up, clenching his jaw. The moldy taste of iron was in his mouth now, mixing with the soil and vinegar. His stomach churned, repulsed. It rolled, desperate to expel the foul taste from his mouth. But he couldn’t heave. His stomach tried to stir, but it…couldn’t.
I missed you, Gregg. You were one of my friends. I remember. We used to talk all the time. I remember your laugh. You were very passionate. I liked that. I liked that warmth…but you’re not warm now. You’re frozen.
Gregg’s eyes darted around the room, struggling to locate the source of the voice. There weren’t many places to hide; the hall was dark, but it was empty. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. He’d see them coming a mile away.
But the voice…he could hear it in his mind. It pressed against his thoughts, clear and blue.
A pair of gloved hands wrapped around Gregg from behind, pulling him into an embrace. Gregg’s lungs filled with ice, and his muscles seized. His neck matched the bruised skin of his knuckles. He took a breath, but it had nowhere to go.
I don’t have much, but I can try to warm you up. You don’t like being cold, do you? Neither do I. Here, let me hold you. I’ll keep you warm…
Gregg’s body fell slack, and he limply collapsed against the kevlar shade. His neck rolled back, cradled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. Gregg’s bloodshot eyes rolled back. He could barely see through the frost on his visor, but he could faintly make out a familiar breather and helmet, staring at him from above. He could hear knocking. Knocking from beneath.
The gloved hands wrapped around his chest, gently holding Gregg upright. The static fingers came up and clasped Gregg’s face, palming his head between sheets of stone. His thoughts trailed off, and even the ice faded into the shifting red.
Oh…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. Are you ok? It’s alright. I’m here. I’m your medic. I can fix this. Just lay still. I’ll take care of this.
Lidocaine flushed his eyes. Dopamine. Serotonin. Oxytocin. Endorphins. His face tingled numb. The nerves laid still. The shifting red turned hot.
M u c h b e t t e r.
I’m so glad. I want to be with my friends again. But…I’m having problems. Something’s wrong. Gregg…can you see me?
…
…I’m still cold. Can you give me a hug?
