fic: Badlands
Sep. 5th, 2020 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Badlands
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother , The beginnings of Scout/Miss Pauling, ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2600
Author's note: Canon-typical gore, unsanitary (vomiting) Part of Loving Ghosts.
For Sarah.
1968.
The heat of Badlands didn't suit him. But an arid wasteland was the best place to hide some secret base, and the price was worth whatever discomfort came. Eight other men were lined up beside him. To his left was someone dressed as if he'd robbed the leavings of several armies from several different countries, and not just the American army he had loudly proclaimed love for earlier that day. He'd worked with the Russian a few times before, though the rest were new, except for the youngest.
His son, who he'd pulled into purgatory with him.
His cap was pulled low, but that smile, and how the words rolled together, even before anyone could answer. He'd seen it from afar many times. Sometimes as the French ghost, others as the closest to a guardian angel he would ever be, as he left a present for his son to find among the grass. As he let his son believe he was blessed by God, incredibly lucky at every turn.
"So, hot weather, huh? I bet the girls around here wear way less than up in Boston. With our Nor'easters, they gotta bundle up. Plus they're all Catholics up there, ain't much into neckin', but it's probably shorts and low-cut tops all the time down here. I'd do it for free just for a chance to get with some girls in shorts and---"
He broke off suddenly as he turned. If there were any women he'd caught sight of, Spy hadn't seen them.
He didn't bother to continue his blathering, and instead turned to Spy. He broke into such a wide grin, revealing prominent buck-teeth and an overbite.
"So, you wanna be James Bond, huh? What are you goin' to do, throw gin and tonic in someone's face? Or are you too busy gettin' the ladies, like Mr. Bond himself? More like Mr. Boned if you know what I mean, right? Right?"
He bent over laughing, like he'd delivered some supreme wit. No one joined in on his laughter, but he didn't seem to notice.
Spy had to remind himself: He wasn't Liam any longer, but Scout. A boy playing at war with a bat and gun.
No, a man now. Though he was still so wiry, with a baby face that endlessly frustrated him when he was the only Dempsey boy who didn't have to shave in the morning.
Though, to call them men was a misnomer. They were barely human now, stripped down to a basic, animal core. All traces of their life before erased. But they would be paid well. That was the price for selling everything away to the Voice.
Everyone stood at attention as Miss Pauling walked out, even though she was smaller than even Engineer, and more slight than even Scout, who was thin and mismatched among the assassins and monsters collected here. He quieted immediately upon seeing her. For a few moments, he gaped openly, like he'd run into a wall. Scout no longer slouched, but stood his full height.
"Miss Pauling!" Liam stopped, suddenly, as if he'd had more to say but it was lost somewhere as he gazed into her eyes. "You're back!"
She no longer had ribbons in her hair, and the bun finally felt her size, instead of a girl trying on a woman's fashions. Her expression didn't even change as she caught sight of them. What a change this many years could make.
"I work here," she said.
"Awesome," he said.
Her gaze did not linger on Spy even for a moment. There was no trace of the deal they'd made. They were professionals, after all.
She kept focused on the clipboard, and much to Scout's disappointment, did not look up at the mercenaries.
"You're all gathered here. If you read the supplemental materials and every part of your contract, you'll understand the rules. Under no circumstances should names be exchanged. Consider everything you see here secret sharing any form of information on the premises will have severe penalties."
"In summary, we are dead men," Spy said. "Forget your names and families."
Though he'd been one far longer. Nameless, faceless, and buried twice under two different names. Before her, there was no one left to mourn him.
"You, maybe, but I'm still plenty alive. And single, might I add," he said. He gave Miss Pauling a brilliant smile.
She clutched her clipboard a bit tighter. Rocking back on her heels to try and gain some kind of height, she stared down hired killers twice her size.
"I can't imagine why you'd be single," Spy said.
"Me neither, though if a certain pretty lady wants want to fix that, I'm game," Scout said.
He never could read sarcasm very well.
"Moving on," she said.
Her name tag across her chest said Pauling on it. Scout had been memorizing her name, or the lines of her curves the entire time. Knowing him, it was probably both. He was like a car crash of teenage hormones he never outgrew. Watching his feeble attempts at flirtation was cringe worthy, to say the least.
Romance was one thing he didn't inherit from Spy, that was for sure.
She continued talking, but Spy kept getting distracted by the boy's fidgeting. Spy let out a sigh. What an utter handful. And the battle hadn't even started yet.
"There, that's all. And, ahem, good luck."
There were several murmurs of bye, Miss Pauling among the men. Scout was so stunned that for a moment, he stayed completely silent. He shook himself back and called out a loud BYE, MISS PAULING to make up for his seconds of silence.
When she left, Liam's gaze followed her.
"Dibs, dibs to the umpteenth degree, seriously, I will fight anyone on this. Seriously, I will square the fuck up," he said.
"Like I'd waste my time. Some of us came here to do our job," said the Australian in the back.
Not a surprise, he seemed little interested in romance.
"I can work and flirt at the same time. I am incredible at multitaskin'. Back in school, I could throw paper airplanes, make fart jokes and charm all the ladies at once," Scout said.
Behind him, the doctor rolled his eyes. The Engineer hadn't looked up from his papers. A strange being in a fire hazard suit and mask, like something out of a nightmare toyed with a lighter at the very back.
"So we're good on this? Good, then no fightin' over girls," Scout said.
Knowing Scout, he'd find plenty of other things to fight about.
"So, you're German, huh? You ever wear that leader-hosen crap? Do any little dances?" Scout said.
"Ah, I see, you wish to donate a kidney for science. Ja, how kind of you, since you're so giving, anesthesia won't be necessary. In fact, I can do the operation right here," the doctor said. He smiled, both vicious and unsettlingly happy for one talking about carving out organs. The harsh New Mexico sun glinted at the bonesaw, which was already stained with someone's blood, even though they'd only been in the base for less than a day.
Scout leapt away, just barely missing a strike. "What the hell is wrong with you? We're on the same side!"
He struck out again, but Scout was far too fast for him. The third swipe was close enough to leave a rip in Scout's red shirt.
"You're expendable, but your organs aren't!" he said in a way which was both utterly cheerful and completely disturbing all at once.
The large Russian man cracked his knuckles behind them. "Enough."
His voice was low, and powerful. Everyone took notice when he spoke, especially the doctor.
"It was merely a joke," the doctor said.
"Yes, I know. It is him who cannot stop chattering, and him who has said enough."
"You're taking his side?"
"Do not torment Doktor," Heavy said.
Even Scout, with all his foolhardy ways, swallowed nervously at the implicit threat in Heavy's low, rumbling voice.
Spy chuckled. "You'll learn."
"Learn what?"
Many had guessed the certain subtext between the Russian (known only as Heavy Weapons Guy--Heavy for short) and the doctor. But, none of these men cared--and some certainly shared the same proclivities.
(Or in Spy's case, a bit of both.)
"You'll see," Spy said.
"See what?"
Several of the men laughed at this, as they filed into that white room.
Every man here had seen war, except for Liam. He'd had little more than bloody noses and playground fights. All those gangs were little more than games of tag compared to the hell that Spy had brought him into.
Think of him as Scout, not as Liam, he reminded himself. It will help when you have to watch your son die before your eyes a thousand times a day.
There was nothing of him in the shape of his face, his light hair and eyes. She had sworn he looked just like her brother, the one who'd died down at the docks. He'd seen photos between candles covered in saints. She left prayers there every night for the brother she'd lost.
Spy only hoped that one day Liam wouldn't join Finny in the shrine of people lost to Colleen.
*
The first time was the hardest. The technology was quite advanced, some Faustian deal of life regeneration. Death was easier than he ever imagined. The pair was like nothing he ever felt, and he ruined a perfectly good suit, yes, but seconds later he returned. Nothing more than a Sisyphean task he'd taken on.
It was said that there was nothing harder than watching a child die. He would watch the son he never could be there for die hundreds of time a day, each more bloody. He deserved this, of course, but Liam certainly didn't.
(At least Colleen didn't know the details of how he got the money. )
He waited in the spawn as Scout returned. The cigarette was no calm as the moments ticked by. He chainsmoked every single cigarette, craving that calm. He was glad for his gloves, his palms were sweaty. He had sudden memories of the first time he faced the Germans--back when he was still a boy, with a heart, and a capability for innocence.
That would be Liam--Scout--now. His first war. Not in the trenches, or deep in Vietnam, but in the desert with several highly trained mercenaries, all who could exact more painful deaths than one could imagine. Spy had helped Scout trade one hell for another.
Scout's knees shuddered as he fell forward. Between the first few sobs, he started to retch. Spy stepped away from the mess before it got on his shoes.
"F-Fuck....I-I..."
"It gets easier," he said.
Spy looked away and tried not to think of the little boy he had sung French lullabies to. Some had to watch their sons die, he would have to watch over and over every day in some Dante's circle of hell.
"If they see you cry, they'll never let you hear the end of it," Spy said.
"I ain't cryin', everyone tears up when they're barfin'. Everyone knows that. I just ate some bad food down. You seen that kitchen? It's a friggin' mess. Ain't supposed to eat that much and go runnin' in the heat like that."
"Of course," Spy said. He bent to hand over his handkerchief. Scout wiped at his face.
"Yeah,...thanks, mister," he said.
"Here's a little word of advice: don't trust anyone."
He looked such an innocent as he stared up, disbelieving. Soon that would be lost.
"But, this whole thing back there--we're on the same side and all---"
"That back there? With the tears? What excellent blackmail. What was her name---Miss Pauling, was it? I'm sure she'd love to know about your heroic deeds, and how you cried yourself hoarse when you got out."
Of course, she'd probably already seen it. The Administrator saw all, and little escaped her watchful assistant.
Scout's face twisted in rage. "You son of a bitch--I...I thought you were bein' my friend! I...thought you might even be that LeCroix."
"...LeCroix? Who told you this?"
"Forget it, it don't matter. You sure ain't him anyways, because ma told me he'd help me. And you ain't suited to help anybody!"
"You're right; I'm not. Learn well the kind of people this place is full of."
"As far as I can see, the only asshole here is you!"
He just barely ducked the first punch, disappearing into air.
"Come on and fight me, you fuckin' coward. I'll smash your face in. Oh sure, you think you're somethin' with your big fancy French accent, but take those fancy tech crap away and you couldn't last in the ring. You're a dead man, you asshole!"
"Playing hide and seek, are you?" Spy said.
"I'll seek you, seek you right with my bat until your head caves in!"
"If you say so," he said.
Spy stepped aside of his clumsy swings.
"Just a little lesson: you have no allies. All of the mercenaries are backstabbers. It is best you learn that lesson today, before you get the mistaken belief that the are your friends."
"And what about Miss Pauling? She sprung me from the clink and everythin'," Scout said. "She's like--an angel! Or somethin' heavenly."
"She serves the Voice, which should be your answer already."
"The Voice?"
"The woman on the speakers who gives us commands."
"That lady? Is she hot?"
"She is a woman who could put fear in the devil himself."
"That didn't answer my question, though. Though it's soundin' like 'yes,'" Scout said.
Spy let out a sigh. Scout had never faced the Voice. He did not know the sheer depth of her cruelty. He could only hope and pray to a god he no longer was convinced existed that Scout never did meet her.
He walked out into battle. Scout's voice was drowned out by explosions, and the death cries of other men. Comrades in arms, but never friends.
No longer could he be simply the specter in their life. Hard lessons, like a twist of the knife, would help him stay alive in the future.
He waited at the edge of the battle. He wouldn't step in again. He wouldn't--
He did, again and again. He ignored the objective and became Scout's shadow. For all of this, Scout stayed alive a little longer. Even if he would return in a few moments, sent back from whatever came after that final death, Scout would be spared the pain.
(And so would Spy.)
He'd hoped Scout would learn this lesson well, as painful as it was. Spy played the role of the villain oh so well.
But before the night was over, Scout was out drinking with Solider. By midnight, he had two broken bones and an accessory to murder charge, if they ever got caught.
Naive, gullible and loud and prone to leaking important details were the worst combination of qualities he could think of for working at a place like TF Industries. Add into it his weakness for women, especially the one woman he should know better than to be flirting with, and it was a downfall waiting to happen.
Still, he was alive. And no matter what the costs, it was worth that.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Spy/Scout's mother , The beginnings of Scout/Miss Pauling, ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2600
Author's note: Canon-typical gore, unsanitary (vomiting) Part of Loving Ghosts.
For Sarah.
1968.
The heat of Badlands didn't suit him. But an arid wasteland was the best place to hide some secret base, and the price was worth whatever discomfort came. Eight other men were lined up beside him. To his left was someone dressed as if he'd robbed the leavings of several armies from several different countries, and not just the American army he had loudly proclaimed love for earlier that day. He'd worked with the Russian a few times before, though the rest were new, except for the youngest.
His son, who he'd pulled into purgatory with him.
His cap was pulled low, but that smile, and how the words rolled together, even before anyone could answer. He'd seen it from afar many times. Sometimes as the French ghost, others as the closest to a guardian angel he would ever be, as he left a present for his son to find among the grass. As he let his son believe he was blessed by God, incredibly lucky at every turn.
"So, hot weather, huh? I bet the girls around here wear way less than up in Boston. With our Nor'easters, they gotta bundle up. Plus they're all Catholics up there, ain't much into neckin', but it's probably shorts and low-cut tops all the time down here. I'd do it for free just for a chance to get with some girls in shorts and---"
He broke off suddenly as he turned. If there were any women he'd caught sight of, Spy hadn't seen them.
He didn't bother to continue his blathering, and instead turned to Spy. He broke into such a wide grin, revealing prominent buck-teeth and an overbite.
"So, you wanna be James Bond, huh? What are you goin' to do, throw gin and tonic in someone's face? Or are you too busy gettin' the ladies, like Mr. Bond himself? More like Mr. Boned if you know what I mean, right? Right?"
He bent over laughing, like he'd delivered some supreme wit. No one joined in on his laughter, but he didn't seem to notice.
Spy had to remind himself: He wasn't Liam any longer, but Scout. A boy playing at war with a bat and gun.
No, a man now. Though he was still so wiry, with a baby face that endlessly frustrated him when he was the only Dempsey boy who didn't have to shave in the morning.
Though, to call them men was a misnomer. They were barely human now, stripped down to a basic, animal core. All traces of their life before erased. But they would be paid well. That was the price for selling everything away to the Voice.
Everyone stood at attention as Miss Pauling walked out, even though she was smaller than even Engineer, and more slight than even Scout, who was thin and mismatched among the assassins and monsters collected here. He quieted immediately upon seeing her. For a few moments, he gaped openly, like he'd run into a wall. Scout no longer slouched, but stood his full height.
"Miss Pauling!" Liam stopped, suddenly, as if he'd had more to say but it was lost somewhere as he gazed into her eyes. "You're back!"
She no longer had ribbons in her hair, and the bun finally felt her size, instead of a girl trying on a woman's fashions. Her expression didn't even change as she caught sight of them. What a change this many years could make.
"I work here," she said.
"Awesome," he said.
Her gaze did not linger on Spy even for a moment. There was no trace of the deal they'd made. They were professionals, after all.
She kept focused on the clipboard, and much to Scout's disappointment, did not look up at the mercenaries.
"You're all gathered here. If you read the supplemental materials and every part of your contract, you'll understand the rules. Under no circumstances should names be exchanged. Consider everything you see here secret sharing any form of information on the premises will have severe penalties."
"In summary, we are dead men," Spy said. "Forget your names and families."
Though he'd been one far longer. Nameless, faceless, and buried twice under two different names. Before her, there was no one left to mourn him.
"You, maybe, but I'm still plenty alive. And single, might I add," he said. He gave Miss Pauling a brilliant smile.
She clutched her clipboard a bit tighter. Rocking back on her heels to try and gain some kind of height, she stared down hired killers twice her size.
"I can't imagine why you'd be single," Spy said.
"Me neither, though if a certain pretty lady wants want to fix that, I'm game," Scout said.
He never could read sarcasm very well.
"Moving on," she said.
Her name tag across her chest said Pauling on it. Scout had been memorizing her name, or the lines of her curves the entire time. Knowing him, it was probably both. He was like a car crash of teenage hormones he never outgrew. Watching his feeble attempts at flirtation was cringe worthy, to say the least.
Romance was one thing he didn't inherit from Spy, that was for sure.
She continued talking, but Spy kept getting distracted by the boy's fidgeting. Spy let out a sigh. What an utter handful. And the battle hadn't even started yet.
"There, that's all. And, ahem, good luck."
There were several murmurs of bye, Miss Pauling among the men. Scout was so stunned that for a moment, he stayed completely silent. He shook himself back and called out a loud BYE, MISS PAULING to make up for his seconds of silence.
When she left, Liam's gaze followed her.
"Dibs, dibs to the umpteenth degree, seriously, I will fight anyone on this. Seriously, I will square the fuck up," he said.
"Like I'd waste my time. Some of us came here to do our job," said the Australian in the back.
Not a surprise, he seemed little interested in romance.
"I can work and flirt at the same time. I am incredible at multitaskin'. Back in school, I could throw paper airplanes, make fart jokes and charm all the ladies at once," Scout said.
Behind him, the doctor rolled his eyes. The Engineer hadn't looked up from his papers. A strange being in a fire hazard suit and mask, like something out of a nightmare toyed with a lighter at the very back.
"So we're good on this? Good, then no fightin' over girls," Scout said.
Knowing Scout, he'd find plenty of other things to fight about.
"So, you're German, huh? You ever wear that leader-hosen crap? Do any little dances?" Scout said.
"Ah, I see, you wish to donate a kidney for science. Ja, how kind of you, since you're so giving, anesthesia won't be necessary. In fact, I can do the operation right here," the doctor said. He smiled, both vicious and unsettlingly happy for one talking about carving out organs. The harsh New Mexico sun glinted at the bonesaw, which was already stained with someone's blood, even though they'd only been in the base for less than a day.
Scout leapt away, just barely missing a strike. "What the hell is wrong with you? We're on the same side!"
He struck out again, but Scout was far too fast for him. The third swipe was close enough to leave a rip in Scout's red shirt.
"You're expendable, but your organs aren't!" he said in a way which was both utterly cheerful and completely disturbing all at once.
The large Russian man cracked his knuckles behind them. "Enough."
His voice was low, and powerful. Everyone took notice when he spoke, especially the doctor.
"It was merely a joke," the doctor said.
"Yes, I know. It is him who cannot stop chattering, and him who has said enough."
"You're taking his side?"
"Do not torment Doktor," Heavy said.
Even Scout, with all his foolhardy ways, swallowed nervously at the implicit threat in Heavy's low, rumbling voice.
Spy chuckled. "You'll learn."
"Learn what?"
Many had guessed the certain subtext between the Russian (known only as Heavy Weapons Guy--Heavy for short) and the doctor. But, none of these men cared--and some certainly shared the same proclivities.
(Or in Spy's case, a bit of both.)
"You'll see," Spy said.
"See what?"
Several of the men laughed at this, as they filed into that white room.
Every man here had seen war, except for Liam. He'd had little more than bloody noses and playground fights. All those gangs were little more than games of tag compared to the hell that Spy had brought him into.
Think of him as Scout, not as Liam, he reminded himself. It will help when you have to watch your son die before your eyes a thousand times a day.
There was nothing of him in the shape of his face, his light hair and eyes. She had sworn he looked just like her brother, the one who'd died down at the docks. He'd seen photos between candles covered in saints. She left prayers there every night for the brother she'd lost.
Spy only hoped that one day Liam wouldn't join Finny in the shrine of people lost to Colleen.
*
The first time was the hardest. The technology was quite advanced, some Faustian deal of life regeneration. Death was easier than he ever imagined. The pair was like nothing he ever felt, and he ruined a perfectly good suit, yes, but seconds later he returned. Nothing more than a Sisyphean task he'd taken on.
It was said that there was nothing harder than watching a child die. He would watch the son he never could be there for die hundreds of time a day, each more bloody. He deserved this, of course, but Liam certainly didn't.
(At least Colleen didn't know the details of how he got the money. )
He waited in the spawn as Scout returned. The cigarette was no calm as the moments ticked by. He chainsmoked every single cigarette, craving that calm. He was glad for his gloves, his palms were sweaty. He had sudden memories of the first time he faced the Germans--back when he was still a boy, with a heart, and a capability for innocence.
That would be Liam--Scout--now. His first war. Not in the trenches, or deep in Vietnam, but in the desert with several highly trained mercenaries, all who could exact more painful deaths than one could imagine. Spy had helped Scout trade one hell for another.
Scout's knees shuddered as he fell forward. Between the first few sobs, he started to retch. Spy stepped away from the mess before it got on his shoes.
"F-Fuck....I-I..."
"It gets easier," he said.
Spy looked away and tried not to think of the little boy he had sung French lullabies to. Some had to watch their sons die, he would have to watch over and over every day in some Dante's circle of hell.
"If they see you cry, they'll never let you hear the end of it," Spy said.
"I ain't cryin', everyone tears up when they're barfin'. Everyone knows that. I just ate some bad food down. You seen that kitchen? It's a friggin' mess. Ain't supposed to eat that much and go runnin' in the heat like that."
"Of course," Spy said. He bent to hand over his handkerchief. Scout wiped at his face.
"Yeah,...thanks, mister," he said.
"Here's a little word of advice: don't trust anyone."
He looked such an innocent as he stared up, disbelieving. Soon that would be lost.
"But, this whole thing back there--we're on the same side and all---"
"That back there? With the tears? What excellent blackmail. What was her name---Miss Pauling, was it? I'm sure she'd love to know about your heroic deeds, and how you cried yourself hoarse when you got out."
Of course, she'd probably already seen it. The Administrator saw all, and little escaped her watchful assistant.
Scout's face twisted in rage. "You son of a bitch--I...I thought you were bein' my friend! I...thought you might even be that LeCroix."
"...LeCroix? Who told you this?"
"Forget it, it don't matter. You sure ain't him anyways, because ma told me he'd help me. And you ain't suited to help anybody!"
"You're right; I'm not. Learn well the kind of people this place is full of."
"As far as I can see, the only asshole here is you!"
He just barely ducked the first punch, disappearing into air.
"Come on and fight me, you fuckin' coward. I'll smash your face in. Oh sure, you think you're somethin' with your big fancy French accent, but take those fancy tech crap away and you couldn't last in the ring. You're a dead man, you asshole!"
"Playing hide and seek, are you?" Spy said.
"I'll seek you, seek you right with my bat until your head caves in!"
"If you say so," he said.
Spy stepped aside of his clumsy swings.
"Just a little lesson: you have no allies. All of the mercenaries are backstabbers. It is best you learn that lesson today, before you get the mistaken belief that the are your friends."
"And what about Miss Pauling? She sprung me from the clink and everythin'," Scout said. "She's like--an angel! Or somethin' heavenly."
"She serves the Voice, which should be your answer already."
"The Voice?"
"The woman on the speakers who gives us commands."
"That lady? Is she hot?"
"She is a woman who could put fear in the devil himself."
"That didn't answer my question, though. Though it's soundin' like 'yes,'" Scout said.
Spy let out a sigh. Scout had never faced the Voice. He did not know the sheer depth of her cruelty. He could only hope and pray to a god he no longer was convinced existed that Scout never did meet her.
He walked out into battle. Scout's voice was drowned out by explosions, and the death cries of other men. Comrades in arms, but never friends.
No longer could he be simply the specter in their life. Hard lessons, like a twist of the knife, would help him stay alive in the future.
He waited at the edge of the battle. He wouldn't step in again. He wouldn't--
He did, again and again. He ignored the objective and became Scout's shadow. For all of this, Scout stayed alive a little longer. Even if he would return in a few moments, sent back from whatever came after that final death, Scout would be spared the pain.
(And so would Spy.)
He'd hoped Scout would learn this lesson well, as painful as it was. Spy played the role of the villain oh so well.
But before the night was over, Scout was out drinking with Solider. By midnight, he had two broken bones and an accessory to murder charge, if they ever got caught.
Naive, gullible and loud and prone to leaking important details were the worst combination of qualities he could think of for working at a place like TF Industries. Add into it his weakness for women, especially the one woman he should know better than to be flirting with, and it was a downfall waiting to happen.
Still, he was alive. And no matter what the costs, it was worth that.
