CHANGED BLOG Journalist

on friends and soulmates and that type of love that feels like it's going to burst right out of your heart

“I had been at work about two months when Christmas came on – and here I must relate a little anecdote. The principal [the tailor] and his lady were invited to a party among their friends…while it devolved on me to stay at home and keep house. There was nothing left me in charge to do, only to take care of the house. There was a large cat that generally lay about the fire. In order to try my mechanical powers, I concluded to make a suit of clothing for puss, and for my purpose gathered some scraps of cloth that lay about the shop-board, and went to work as hard as I could. Late in the evening I got my suit of clothes finished; I caught the cat, put on the whole suit – coat, vest, and small-clothes [breeches] – buttoned all on tight, and set down my cat to inspect the fit. 

A muscular, completely black horse whose silhouette against the night sky reveals a man holding her reins is a familiar picture, is a fear that has been held towards the chest of his father, their fathers and his grandfather's fathers. They've warned him to exhaustion to not fall from the goodness path, and so he can blame himself only. Ancestral fears are the only thing that his grandfather managed to carve deep into his brain and nerves before the earth swallowed them whole.

He has been warned and yet he took all the wrong paths, all the shortcuts, he forgot to pray and he broke the traditions that kept good people from being swallowed whole by the devil. Who did he think he was? To challenge a corporation? To challenge his position? To challenge God himself? Oh, he will never see heaven, for he has tried to reach God with a ladder and now the devil himself has come to deliver a fate so gruesome that God himself didn't want to present it.

Beg. He wishes he could beg to free himself from this fate. But he knows who this devil is and he's heard of what he does; it's too late if it's already on your doorstep. It's the devil that collects the greedy and punishes the ambitions, the rider whose horse brings death with every step. Charro Negro, they call him. But behind the human mask, it's the devil itself.

The terror turned into a tremor, which allowed the gas to escape and grow as if it was divine mandated. Those are the flames of hell, he thought, I've ruined my only life. I don't have where to fall death, I don't even own my life. I sold it to the devil trying to find a purpose.

Wait. Wait, waitwaitwait— Javier no!!

Sunset gasps as the journalist darts off the edge and the ground gives out. He hops off of his horse and rushes over to follow the screams, practically diving down the mountain with Javier.

The guilt was suffocating, but the adrenaline was more so. He never thought he'd be feeling this way climbing down a mountain.

He'd try to call out but it'd likely get drowned out by screams, so instead, he focused on...

A hand grabs onto Javier, attempting to pull him in with incredible strength. If he shielded the other with his body in a hug, it'd be— well, at the very least he hoped Javier wouldn't explode into a million tiny Javier pieces! Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god— who does he pray to, who will listen?

[English: "No! No, no, no, no! Please don't take me, not yet, I-I know I feel for temptation, but please don't take me yet, I-I swear- I swear before God himself that I'll change! Don't take me yet, don't kill me-- my only intentions were to relieve (ease) my wife's death, I swear I never meant to question you nor God! Please-“]

A savior hand is, in most scenarios, greatly appreciated, why wouldn't it be? Javier would've been immensely grateful to anyone who extended the most minimal decency to him, let alone a helping hand! However, after seeing an imposing figure cut against the gray night with the exact characteristics he had been told the Devil had, well, fear took the front seat. He didn't squirm, didn't fight because what could a few punches do against an unholy force? He merely stood exactly where he was caught, eyes closed and trying to bow at the best of his capacity, begging for his life with a desperation he had only used with his mother.

Courier knew that look all too well. That was the look of disappointment and disapproval. From other mercenaries it was shameful, but not horrifying. From Medic? It sent a chill up his spine and his heart racing.

“Not… exactly?” He replied, voice squeaky, “Besides, well, you and Engie, no one but Snipes has… found out.”

He glanced towards Sniper, trying to get some backup, only to find his face turned away. He never saw what Medic had done to fake his death. With respawn tech, it was hard to see death in the field as ‘permanent’ anymore, so whatever it was must have been… horrific. He didn’t want to ask Sniper about it, but the alternative was right in front of him and not happy.

However, in his many years working with Medic, Courier had gathered that the icy disappointment only came from him when something he was proud of had failed, and Courier had spent many a late night listening to Medic yammer on about a new breakthrough that he was proud of. With the right words, it wouldn’t be hard to get the man talking.

As Medic takes off his glasses to clean the glass the mystery starts to unravel. Faking permanence for the unhappended was a hassle, clearly, by the way he scoffs before even answering.

—🩻— “ Well, ze main issue was the respawn machine, Ja? We are all so used to perceiving death as this ephemeral feeling, just a few seconds and voila! It was quite ze challenge, but Engineer and I managed to come up with a solution! We changed ze internal workings of an old respawn machine with a teleporter, then just used one of your, ahem, past casualties to pass off as a new death. And so, when they expected to see you back, vell, it wasn't a pretty view. I'm sure you remember why we don't teleport food, Ja? So many pesky mutations. ”

“Mailman?”

Courier brings a hand to his chest, and for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, his fingernails look like claws. A ringing noise begins in his ears, drowning out the quiet chatter of civilians. What has he done? He should have known better than to ask the two men with a god complex to help him fake his own death. Of course they went overboard. He tries to steady his breathing and, when he is unable to, he begins to shake.

“Corey?”

How foolish was he back then that he went along with all of it? He could have fought to stay with his team. It wouldn’t have been easy, but he could have. But where would that have gotten him? Where would that have gotten his friends? Would they have been worse off than they are now?

He stumbles backwards, away from the truth. He feels his ankle roll in a way that it isn’t supposed to. For a moment, he is falling.

“Scotty!”

He feels a hand around his wrist, and frantically glances towards its owner. He sees his own panic reflected in both amber sunglasses and the eyes behind them. For a moment, both men’s hearts are beating in synchronized terror as they stare at each other.

Sniper pulls Courier back to a stable standing position, lets out a sigh of relief, and the moment passes. However, this only partially alleviates Courier’s panic.

“I-“ he replies, voice shaking, “I think I need some space.”

Slowly, making sure he doesn’t trip again, he backs out of the diner. The bell on the door rings as he leaves.

Behind Medic, out of the corner of his eye he spots a glass of water on an empty, unseated table; a courtesy. He almost pushes Medic out of the way to get to the table; he's acting like a badly behaved child but the regret can wait. He snatches two glasses of water from the table, knocking the other off. He storms out of the dinner.

His first thought is that Courier speed off and leave all three of them alone, that possibility dies as soon as he sees him in the gravel, hands enveloping his face, as if to protect himself. His walking slows almost to a halt; comforting people isn't his strong suit, but then again, he's the only one in the parking lot. Sniper is probably chewing Medic off.

He spots just behind Courier, unsure of what to do, how to act, what to say- but he has to start or he will do nothing at all. He sits next to Courier, on his left side, letting space for another person in between. He clears his throat.

˖ ࣪ ꉂ˙,🗞️.꩜‹—˖ ࣪

With a shaky hand, Courier takes the glass of water. He tries not to linger on his reflection in the warped surface, instead choosing to take a drink.

The water is cold, and rushes through his body from his mouth to his stomach. The harshness of it against the hot desert sun jolts him back into the present. He’s not in danger. The horrors of what happened are behind him. Hell, he wasn’t even there to begin with. He lets out a harsh chuckle.

“Sorry. It’s stupid. I just…”

What can he even say to describe it? He’s not usually the type to run off, so why in the world did he run from not only the truth, but the truth from the mouth of a friend? Well, he supposes he’ll have to reexamine Medic’s status as a ‘friend’, but it’s hard not to bond with someone when they’ve saved your life, both literally and metaphorically.

“I can’t say he means well, but…”

Courier shifts his position, bringing one arm up to rest on his knees and the other to lay across his lap.

“…he’s someone I value, so-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t be too upset with him. I gave him an impossible task and he fulfilled it. Wouldn’t be the first time I came to him with something so… fragile, either.”

Courier tilts his head towards Journalist. He’s already vulnerable; why not spill the secret he keeps the most hidden. The other two men in the diner know it already, and he’d rather Journalist hear it from him instead of either of those two crass chatterboxes.

But when the truth came, it felt as if he had lost all sense of balance and reality; as if his reality had been stripped of the covers to reveal an already collapsing structure. For a second he saw no way out but to deny the revelation and all the answers that came with it. He had the nerve to doubt another person's confession all because if it was a reality, then his reality wasn't solid in the slightest. His heart tried to escape the turmoil by climbing to his throat, he drowned it by drinking the tall glass of water in three big gulps. This isn't about him, he knows it's now. But "he" has questions and isn't so sure of the solidity of the answers "he" built with mud and tears anymore. Could it really be possible? Could a different life really be a possibility? The glass starts to get foggy because of the force of the grip that unknowingly tries to lock "him" into place, an anchor to reality. But there has been a confession and an answer is due.

🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

“ Y-you- /cough/ Sorry, sorry. I'm- It's the first time I've heard that- that's possible. I was always under the assumption-- it doesn't matter. It- so- ”

Why was "he" getting so worked up? "He" puts the glass of water down to the asphalt, because "he" doesn't trust "he" won't drop it and break it. Well, "he" has "his" question answered one of them. That doesn't change the fact that there is a gap between fantasy and reality. Focus, "he" has to focus. He.

There is a moment of confusion at the mention of “his” Medic. He’s been with TFI for a while now, but every so often he gets tripped up by the similarities between RED and BLU. Cracking an inside joke that only one Scout would remember to the other one can keep a man up at night. There are times where he lies awake at night, wondering what happened to his own double; if he’s even the original version of himself.

As Journalist continues, however, Courier rips his train of thought away from the existentialism. His expression softens and he sighs.

“It should have been. I should have at least asked him,“ Courier chuckles, “goodness knows he would have told me right then and there.”

He takes another drink from his own cup, then grabs Journalist’s discarded glass and stacks the two together.

“But I was in a bit of a rush, and- to be honest -wasn’t in the best frame of mind at the time. Can’t blame him for not giving me information I didn’t ask for.”

He looks out over the horizon, mulling everything over again. So, his ‘death’ had been a horrific display brought about by Medic and Engineer, Sniper now knows he’s alive, and Journalist might be more similar to himself than he had thought.

Wait a second. How many times had he asked Engie for details surrounding his ‘death’? And how many times had the other man just shaken his head? Told him ‘you don’t want to know’?

The sunset makes a cruel remark; whatever was done cannot be reversed. Sniper will carry the sight of a distorted corpse of the one he loved, Courier will carry the weight of the lie and the deceit. Any trace of their past life was dead the moment the sun fell behind the hills in the distance in that horrible day.

But he's not looking at the sunset. He can't face it, he can't accept that the day is over and gone, because that would mean he has to live knowing a better life is possible. And that he's too much of a coward to ever live it. Or to even deserve it, because how could he dare to begin ask something like that? He hasn't done anything with his life that grants someone will give him that change. By accident, the universe saw him see the beautiful night sky that has been above his head all these years, and then wrapped her head back in thick black cotton bandages. But now, oh, now she knows. She can taste the freedom, she can see herself living without feeling that her face doesn't fit. She knows, but he's still a coward and his head is still covered. And as beautiful as the stars are, the total darkness is comfortingly familiar. What if the stars above fall from the sky and hurt him? Would she be brave enough to bleed for a better life?

—··🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

“ How did you know it? ”

Her own voice startles him. The words ran from his throat without permission, leaving him exposed. It's not that the doubt was fake; his ignorance was sincere. But he didn't felt ready to ask, to face it. Not today, not never. And yet he said it, why did let her talk?

“ The- uh- /she cleared her throat/, I mean-, how did you know you were a man? If- if I can ask. ”

She doesn't look at him when he asks. Suddenly, the pavement markings are the most intriguing work of all American civilization.

“I just… never felt right as a girl. Dresses felt restricting, and I was never one for makeup or anything like that. I was always down in the dirt, ripping my skirts from climbing in the trees and all that.”

He smiled slightly. Despite the pain, he missed those carefree days as a kid. Sure, he could still climb trees now, but never for play. Always for work, or to draw maps, or to spot enemies.

“And as I grew up, the idea of being a housewife or a mother or a woman was forced on me more and more, and I couldn’t take it. I just knew, deep down in my soul, that I wasn’t a girl, or a woman, or any of those things. So, I started dressing as a man, and fuck, I just immediately felt better.”

“I was in an in-between state for a while, but when I was hired to be a merc and met Medic, well-“ He chuckled, lost in the memory. “-All of us have a little device in our chest that makes the Uber work, so, seeing that, y’know, my body didn’t match up with the way I presented myself, he offered to ‘take care of that for me’. Turns out, he had studied at an Institute that was really knowledgeable about that sort of thing when he was much younger.”

“When everything was finished, and I looked in the mirror, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest. Both literally and metaphorically, y’know.”

Now, "he" was told "his" whole life that ambition and greed will condemn anyone to an eternity in hell. And dreaming about a new life with a new body and a new face would be aiming too far into the stars; maybe if Icarus remained content with a subtle tan, he would've flown for the rest of his life; lower, but safer. There's always been the ever present threat of being discovered, it haunts them even without mention. A spirit that wishes nothing more than to preserve everything as it used to be is often a result of fear and uncertainty; sentiments like this are strong in the war torn town that is Tuefort. "He" doesn't doubt that in their effort to obtain a stable social order the citizens of Tuefort won't hesitate to do what it takes for an outsider to fall in line. Nausea pools into "his" mouth, the sunset kissing "his" doubt with a beautiful array of pink and orange tones.

The pressure of marriage is an old acquaintance of "his". The only difference between the fragments that "his" subconscious mind let "him" access to and the experience that Courier describes is that he escaped before any compromise was set into stone.

The sky is pink, the shirt "he's" wearing today was white when "he" chose it, but the reflection of the sky makes it a baby pink. Suddenly "his" vision is purely Courier's face. "He" could tell him, for sure. But was "he" ready to say it? To anyone? To accept it himself? Herself? To accept herself?

"He" fiddles with "his" fingers as the silence conquers the air once more. What could even be said? What words to use? What tales to tell?

The sunset is setting, the sun is escaping and so will the only safe person "he's" even though could understand "him" (her?). Help "him" (her).

🗞️—····│

“ Eh- Courier. I've- now that you- before I just wasn't- ”

"His" words clash one into another like dominoes. The fear isn't even slightly less, even though he knows for a fact that Courier will accept his confession, secret. "He" can't look him in the eyes anymore. "His" palms pressed against the rough pavement, "his" voice comes out as a crack and as a cry, as the final agony of the day before it gives life to the night.

“Of course there is. It’s not something that you can really change. If you feel like you are a woman, then you are a woman, and nothing’s going to change that.”

He thinks back to a few hours ago, when Journalist had dressed up as ‘Olivia’. She had looked so much happier, even with the constant threat of Saxton Hale looming over her.

“Just…” He hesitates, unsure how exactly to word his thoughts, “Tell me how you’d like me to refer to you around other people. I know it’s a delicate process to tell people that you don’t fit with the box you were stuffed into as a kid, and I don’t want to, y’know, break that box open before you’re ready to. Just know that, in my experience, Snipes and Medic are safe people to tell.”

Realising how that might sound, Courier backtracks.

She started talking holding his gaze, but as her thoughts started to drag into messier territory, her eyes traveled to their intertwined hands. And even though she doesn't regain her initial confidence, a sparkle returns to her eyes; hope. For once, she felt as if there was a possibility of a better life or, even without show casting herself to the world, living would be a little kinder now that there was someone to trust. An ally, a friend and a confident. An alibi. She squeezes his hand as the replacement for a hug she's to afraid to deliver.

No. Journalist had admitted something very personal to him, and he had accepted her; shown her that she wasn’t alone. And, if he could help it, she wouldn’t be ever again.

Still, trying to be gracious, he shook his head.

“No, it’s… the least I could do. It’s important for people like us to stick together, y’know? And don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

He mimed closing his mouth with a zipper.

“I should thank you, too. You didn’t have to come out here to help me. But you did, and that… means a lot.”

Courier glanced towards the lowering sun, and, realising that there were, in fact, two other people inside the diner waiting for them, he stood up and dusted himself off. Then, offering Journalist a hand, he continued.

She grabs his hand, helping herself up. As she looks up at him, she has a feeling she will remember this moment forever. A friend hand helping her stand up in so many ways, inviting her for a meal. Is there any ritual as old and social as eating?

She's eating out with a friend. Honestly, she thought she'll never see the day.

˖ ࣪ ꉂ˙,🗞️.꩜‹—˖ ࣪

“ I had almost forgotten; it's been such an eventful day. I wonder if they'll be seated already. I believe Medic had a table for himself already, maybe they'll be waiting for us.”

As she called back the killer stare Sniper was piercing Medic with some moments back, her eagerness flatters. Maybe not. Maybe they're seconds away from blowing the whole diner up, they should hurry.

“ We, uh-, shouldn't make them wait. People are rather volatile when hungry. ”

And so, without letting go of Courier's hand, off she goes into the diner. Clear as day, Sniper and Medic are seated in opposite sides of a table, staring each other down. No waitress has taken their order, perhaps fearing collateral damage.

Journalist looks back at Courier, trying to communicate the situation telepathically.

He shared a quick glance with Journalist, then nodded. No matter how uncomfortable he himself was, not only did he not want to get kicked out of the restaurant, he couldn’t stand it if he made any more relationships worse.

So, taking a deep breath in, Courier stepped over to the duo.

“Sorry, guys. I’m feeling better.”

At the sound of Courier’s voice, Sniper looked over and took his other hand.

“You sure, Mailman?”

Courier ran his thumb over the back of his companion’s hand, and leaned closer.

“I’m sure, Snipes. Journalist here really helped me out.”

Sniper’s gaze flicked between Courier, Medic, and Journalist before coming back to Courier. He sighed, unlatched his hand from the other’s, and patted the chair that put himself on Courier’s right and Medic on his left.

“Fine. C’mere.”

She swallows her fears and sits in the last seat available, between Medic and Courier. She can't lie and say there was no fear in her heart when she stole a quick glance to Medic, for she has seen the ways he plays with flesh as if it were clay in his experiments in the dead of night. It would be an equally false lie to pretend she wasn't absolutely dying to know if he would consider helping her out the same way he helped Courier. God knows she would happily trade half her right lung for an opportunity to feel like a person and not a caricature.

The silence at the table is deafening. The restaurant is lively, their mood isn't. Even with Courier's presence deterring them from starting a physical fight, their stares reveal just how little they seem to grace each other's company. She steals a quick glance; Courier has been through a lot in just a day, asking him to also control his friends would be cruel. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She's played pretend her whole life; what's an hour more?

“ Thank you for joining us, Sniper, even with the -ahem- quite unusual meeting. I do wonder what the menu is going to look like, I rarely go on diners myself.”

“Yeah, ‘s no problem, mate.”

He glanced down at his menu, looking for something that would interest him. He wasn’t picky by any means, but he tended to stick to tried and true favourites. This being a diner, the usual fare of burgers and shakes was usually a good choice. Instead of a food recommendation, however, he decided to point out the obvious.

“Menu’s right in front of ya. Take your pick; Corey’s payin’.”

She opens one of the menus and stares for a good ten seconds at the names of unknown dishes before she realizes two big problems; she doesn't know how to pronounce any of these words and, more alarmingly, she doesn't know how to alarm Courier of the foods that could kill her. She doesn't even know the words for the foods that will kill her. It should be no problem, right? There are pictures in this menu, surely she will be able to tell my sight if a food will kill her.

Right?

She looks at her companions; Courier has enough in his plate already and she doesn't quite trust her bravery to last enough to strike a conversation with neither Sniper or Medic. She curves into herself just slightly, trying to eardrop into someone else's order.

ミ──✧──🩻──✧──ミ

He looked up from the menu, trying not to shy from Medic’s piercing gaze.

“Forgot to park the convertible far enough away from the base,” he replied, “I took a gamble on whether Sniper’d be in his van or not and lost.”

He felt Sniper’s hand reach for his under the table, and took it. They needed each other now more than ever.

Medic hummed thoughtfully. While his mannerisms gave away no insight into his train of thought, his eyes were a different story. One begins to wonder if those were the eyes he was born with, if anyone could be born with such a cold stare or if he took them from somebody else.

It's been carefully perfected to freeze enemies and confuse allies. Nobody can determine for sure what function they're fulfilling today.

‘Mmm, ja, I see. Well, better than Scout's runny mouth I suppose. I wonder, Courier, is Sniper here can keep ze secret. ”

│. ₊˚.❝ 📰 ❞—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

Oh, she's got a selection of words herself. Medic might be Courier's ally, but she's made no amends and she hasn't pledged to any side. But there's not a place for her to talk, not at this table. But God, if there is a time where one should be careful for their wording you'd think it be today.

The bravest waiter to even step on Tuefort comes at the table, ready to take their orders. Silence is deafening as the stares resist the intervention.

“You know damn well I can, doc. You’re lucky I don’t prove you right to explain why.”

He doesn’t continue, but from the look in his eyes, there’s much more behind that sentence than Courier knows about. Courier looked between the now five people at the table before landing on Sniper.

The tension between the mercenaries is so noticeable you'd think air had become butter with how difficult Journalist was finding it to breathe. She turns around to face the waiter who is, incredibly, not 5 kilometers away from them. She gives an apologetic smile, vaguely gesturing at Medic and Sniper, mumbling something about "businesses these days! Haha", before quickly making an excuse on the spot for their inability to order. She does, however, request more water for her to drink when she needs to avoid eye contact.

ミ──✧──🩻──✧──ミ

“Oh, apologies Courier, I was under the assumption zhat your and Sniper's bond would've...allowed him to discuss such matter already. I'd say, zhis is quite zhe unfortunate moment, Nicht wahr?, after all, Courier is zhe only person who really knows zhis lady.”

“sorrywhat-?” He squeaked.

Sniper, on the other hand, gave the two nothing more than a confused look before setting his sights back on Medic and the discussion at hand. Completely ignoring the poor waiter placing a cup of water in front of him, Sniper leaned over the table to lock eyes with Medic. A smug grin found itself on his face as he spoke.

“Like I’ve said, doc, I’m no snitch,” he stated, “and who’s to say I haven’t already? You don’t know what we’ve done alone.”

Far from being irritated, Medic lets a grin slowly but surely make an appearance in his face. He makes no effort to apologize or even track back, no sir! He takes a good look at Courier and Journalist fighting against the water and leans forward even so slightly.

“Vell, I suppose zat by our dear friend's reaction, he isn't quite aware yet. And I find it hard to believe zat you've two had much time to...chat, given zat lady must've been presented ze whole time. Unless....vell,, Sniper, you should know I'm not one to judge.“

With his ability to distort evidence almost as developed as his ability to distort bodies, Medic had manufactured a form of evading any questioning.

│. ₊˚.❝ 📰 ❞—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

“I can see ya, you know that?”

He slowly stood up, he might as well just go and ask. It would be ridiculous, even insulting to hope an act of bravery would be enough to bury all his past cowardice. And yet, here he is, walking towards the person with the picture between their fingers.

“ Apologies. I'm reporting on the war and by extension the mercenaries. I don't know why I bother trying to be discreet. ”

(Scrapper huffed out a laugh)

“It’s funny. I used to hate ‘em. Thought they were frivolous. Useless.”

(She looked away)

“My girl used to garden a lot. We didn’t have much, but it was nice. Almost made me forget bout everythin’… she deserved better.”

(Her eyes glistened with tears, before she messily wiped them with the back of a gloved hand. She dug out a pack of cigarettes form one of her many pockets, shoving one in her mouth, fumbling with a makeshift lighter)

“It’s… it’s old news though. Doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done. I’ve been through worse, and probably will continue to.”

(Her voice was choked up, which she tried to cover by taking a drag of her cigarette)

He shakes his head in a regretful manner, looking at the picture with nothing but a sense of guilt, an unbearable burden settling on his shoulders.

“Oh, she was the kindest woman. We...didn't get to know each other before getting married, it was meant to *correct us into a normal life*. But even then, she was so..alive, so happy, so full of dreams.“

You were just walking around, reading your journal until-

"Oof!-"

You bump into someone, causing you to stumble back and onto the ground... you look up and...

"My sincere apologies ... are you alright?.."

It was BLU Sergeant... that damned man you've been had a crush on for a few months now.

Sergeant than reached out a hand for Journalist, helping her up.

Sergeant, BLU Sergeant.

Journalist has spent every waking hour of her life since the day she took her first steps into the warzone in observing, registering and documenting the war. The death, the grief and the blood aren't strangers to her, she has met and stalked tens of mercenaries, has learned that there is really not a profile that fits everyone; war will recruit whoever is the easiest. She has seen the war and the bodies and is familiar with the battle; that's why it surprised her as much as it terrified her when she found herself taking more and more time out of her day to observe Sergeant. There was something so different about him. And while he was still a mercenary, there was care in his stare, patience in his words, kindness towards the people he cared about. In a town submerged by violence, his protective approach didn't go unnoticed for her.

She tried to put little thought into the feelings that arrived to her mind whenever she spotted him in battle. Admiration, curiosity and something unnamed that remained unknown for the sake of her job.

And so when she ended up stumbling back into the ground, her worries were far from the reasonable fears; being seen, being shot, being hurt. The pit that formed in his stomach, the feeling that tried to crush the butterflies in her chest was the fear of finally having to confront the face that invoked untamed feelings, dangerous feelings.

Her mind was barely coming up with an escape plan when she heard his voice, for the first time uninterrupted by the sound of rockets and bullets. His hand helped up, steady as an old oak tree.

🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

Sergeant asked in slight curiosity, slightly bending down to her level.

"Pardon me if we have met and I just don't remember at all, Miss."

🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

“ No, I don't believe we've met before, Sir. You'll see, I'm not a part of neither BLU or RED. I'm an independent Journalist, just documenting the war. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir...? ”

As she offers a handshake, her mind tries frantically to come up with a name that can replace her old one. "Javier" isn't precisely a "lady name". C'mon, think! What were her sisters called? Rita-- she can't remember more names. Rita it'll be.

The nickname slipped out as Sergeant shook Journalist's hand, a gentleman he is at that. He stared at her with those hardened yet gentle brown eyes, waiting for her to introduce herself next.

She was being overly, what could be the word? Personal? Inviting? Maybe even flirty?, but, well, it wasn't exactly a lie. Part of her job was really to take statements about the war and how it affected the mercenaries, but she had never been this bold when asking for a collaboration.

His hand almost completely enveloping hers was a really nice sensation, sending jolts of electricity all over her back. What a pity that time was a progressing force and that they couldn't remain undiscovered, still and quiet.

Sergeant stated, gesturing slightly. Not revealing any personal info because why would he? Also yeah, there is a RED version of Sergeant, his name's David.

"Though i must say... Rita's a beautiful name for a beautiful lady like you."

He blurted out before covering his mouth and lowering his hat to cover his slightly flushed face.

His compliment, however, does not fall victim to deaf ears. Proof of that is the expression on Rita's face,, her wide eyes and half unconsciously smile letting it be sure she didn't mind corniness at all. A small chuckle escapes her (what has gotten onto her?), and she fidgets with her notebook without holding his gaze.

˖ ࣪ ꉂ˙,🗞️.꩜‹—˖ ࣪

“ Oh, not at all. You've been the first person to compliment my name in such a way, I'm rather flattered. For all it's worth, I was thinking just about the same; Marsón inspires gentleness, a name proper for a gentleman. ”

She makes an effort to conquer her nervousness, shooting him a smile as she plays with the pencil between her fingers. As carefree as she tries to be, she's never been this close to let her panic overtake her and run away.

"Ah... thank you... most people uh... focus on my muscles rather than simply complimenting, heheh..."

Oh boy he is FLUSTERED, you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

"I'm making a fool out of myself..."

She wasn't quite done listing all the ways it was merely ridiculous for anyone to look at Marsón and see only his physique, but upon glancing in his way she felt she might've said enough. She can't recall ever seeing a man so flustered, but it certainly feels that, as of now, Sergeant is the most handsome man to have ever existed. Where has her professionalism gone lost? In his gorgeous brown eyes, of course.

Sergeant answered, to put it simply. He was the first BLU to come basically.

The tables have turned and now is Journalist herself who is blushing at the thought of being the holder of sensitive information for the Sergeant. It would be also be a lie to say that the mention of his origin didn't bring questions flowing like water; but it would be horribly rude to interrogate someone in such matters...unless?

Sergeant replied softly, slightly walking over to be next to Journalist. Waiting for her to lead the way

Upon closer look. Holy shit he's really tall without him bending over, basically towering over Journalist

He actually finds Journalist cute from above here

"You look adorable from here."

Don't let her boldness trick you, her earth has never spun faster. Maybe it's a side effect of how true to herself she feels at the moment; how steady she feels. Who knew life could be this wonderful outside performance?

Oh, she's far behind her years when it comes to flirting. How does one walk besides the person you just invited to supper? Well, if novels have taught her anything...

“Shall we get going then? I would hate to see the time of a gentleman such as yourself be wasted.“

Courier knew that look all too well. That was the look of disappointment and disapproval. From other mercenaries it was shameful, but not horrifying. From Medic? It sent a chill up his spine and his heart racing.

“Not… exactly?” He replied, voice squeaky, “Besides, well, you and Engie, no one but Snipes has… found out.”

He glanced towards Sniper, trying to get some backup, only to find his face turned away. He never saw what Medic had done to fake his death. With respawn tech, it was hard to see death in the field as ‘permanent’ anymore, so whatever it was must have been… horrific. He didn’t want to ask Sniper about it, but the alternative was right in front of him and not happy.

However, in his many years working with Medic, Courier had gathered that the icy disappointment only came from him when something he was proud of had failed, and Courier had spent many a late night listening to Medic yammer on about a new breakthrough that he was proud of. With the right words, it wouldn’t be hard to get the man talking.

As Medic takes off his glasses to clean the glass the mystery starts to unravel. Faking permanence for the unhappended was a hassle, clearly, by the way he scoffs before even answering.

—🩻— “ Well, ze main issue was the respawn machine, Ja? We are all so used to perceiving death as this ephemeral feeling, just a few seconds and voila! It was quite ze challenge, but Engineer and I managed to come up with a solution! We changed ze internal workings of an old respawn machine with a teleporter, then just used one of your, ahem, past casualties to pass off as a new death. And so, when they expected to see you back, vell, it wasn't a pretty view. I'm sure you remember why we don't teleport food, Ja? So many pesky mutations. ”

“Mailman?”

Courier brings a hand to his chest, and for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, his fingernails look like claws. A ringing noise begins in his ears, drowning out the quiet chatter of civilians. What has he done? He should have known better than to ask the two men with a god complex to help him fake his own death. Of course they went overboard. He tries to steady his breathing and, when he is unable to, he begins to shake.

“Corey?”

How foolish was he back then that he went along with all of it? He could have fought to stay with his team. It wouldn’t have been easy, but he could have. But where would that have gotten him? Where would that have gotten his friends? Would they have been worse off than they are now?

He stumbles backwards, away from the truth. He feels his ankle roll in a way that it isn’t supposed to. For a moment, he is falling.

“Scotty!”

He feels a hand around his wrist, and frantically glances towards its owner. He sees his own panic reflected in both amber sunglasses and the eyes behind them. For a moment, both men’s hearts are beating in synchronized terror as they stare at each other.

Sniper pulls Courier back to a stable standing position, lets out a sigh of relief, and the moment passes. However, this only partially alleviates Courier’s panic.

“I-“ he replies, voice shaking, “I think I need some space.”

Slowly, making sure he doesn’t trip again, he backs out of the diner. The bell on the door rings as he leaves.

Behind Medic, out of the corner of his eye he spots a glass of water on an empty, unseated table; a courtesy. He almost pushes Medic out of the way to get to the table; he's acting like a badly behaved child but the regret can wait. He snatches two glasses of water from the table, knocking the other off. He storms out of the dinner.

His first thought is that Courier speed off and leave all three of them alone, that possibility dies as soon as he sees him in the gravel, hands enveloping his face, as if to protect himself. His walking slows almost to a halt; comforting people isn't his strong suit, but then again, he's the only one in the parking lot. Sniper is probably chewing Medic off.

He spots just behind Courier, unsure of what to do, how to act, what to say- but he has to start or he will do nothing at all. He sits next to Courier, on his left side, letting space for another person in between. He clears his throat.

˖ ࣪ ꉂ˙,🗞️.꩜‹—˖ ࣪

With a shaky hand, Courier takes the glass of water. He tries not to linger on his reflection in the warped surface, instead choosing to take a drink.

The water is cold, and rushes through his body from his mouth to his stomach. The harshness of it against the hot desert sun jolts him back into the present. He’s not in danger. The horrors of what happened are behind him. Hell, he wasn’t even there to begin with. He lets out a harsh chuckle.

“Sorry. It’s stupid. I just…”

What can he even say to describe it? He’s not usually the type to run off, so why in the world did he run from not only the truth, but the truth from the mouth of a friend? Well, he supposes he’ll have to reexamine Medic’s status as a ‘friend’, but it’s hard not to bond with someone when they’ve saved your life, both literally and metaphorically.

“I can’t say he means well, but…”

Courier shifts his position, bringing one arm up to rest on his knees and the other to lay across his lap.

“…he’s someone I value, so-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t be too upset with him. I gave him an impossible task and he fulfilled it. Wouldn’t be the first time I came to him with something so… fragile, either.”

Courier tilts his head towards Journalist. He’s already vulnerable; why not spill the secret he keeps the most hidden. The other two men in the diner know it already, and he’d rather Journalist hear it from him instead of either of those two crass chatterboxes.

But when the truth came, it felt as if he had lost all sense of balance and reality; as if his reality had been stripped of the covers to reveal an already collapsing structure. For a second he saw no way out but to deny the revelation and all the answers that came with it. He had the nerve to doubt another person's confession all because if it was a reality, then his reality wasn't solid in the slightest. His heart tried to escape the turmoil by climbing to his throat, he drowned it by drinking the tall glass of water in three big gulps. This isn't about him, he knows it's now. But "he" has questions and isn't so sure of the solidity of the answers "he" built with mud and tears anymore. Could it really be possible? Could a different life really be a possibility? The glass starts to get foggy because of the force of the grip that unknowingly tries to lock "him" into place, an anchor to reality. But there has been a confession and an answer is due.

🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

“ Y-you- /cough/ Sorry, sorry. I'm- It's the first time I've heard that- that's possible. I was always under the assumption-- it doesn't matter. It- so- ”

Why was "he" getting so worked up? "He" puts the glass of water down to the asphalt, because "he" doesn't trust "he" won't drop it and break it. Well, "he" has "his" question answered one of them. That doesn't change the fact that there is a gap between fantasy and reality. Focus, "he" has to focus. He.

There is a moment of confusion at the mention of “his” Medic. He’s been with TFI for a while now, but every so often he gets tripped up by the similarities between RED and BLU. Cracking an inside joke that only one Scout would remember to the other one can keep a man up at night. There are times where he lies awake at night, wondering what happened to his own double; if he’s even the original version of himself.

As Journalist continues, however, Courier rips his train of thought away from the existentialism. His expression softens and he sighs.

“It should have been. I should have at least asked him,“ Courier chuckles, “goodness knows he would have told me right then and there.”

He takes another drink from his own cup, then grabs Journalist’s discarded glass and stacks the two together.

“But I was in a bit of a rush, and- to be honest -wasn’t in the best frame of mind at the time. Can’t blame him for not giving me information I didn’t ask for.”

He looks out over the horizon, mulling everything over again. So, his ‘death’ had been a horrific display brought about by Medic and Engineer, Sniper now knows he’s alive, and Journalist might be more similar to himself than he had thought.

Wait a second. How many times had he asked Engie for details surrounding his ‘death’? And how many times had the other man just shaken his head? Told him ‘you don’t want to know’?

The sunset makes a cruel remark; whatever was done cannot be reversed. Sniper will carry the sight of a distorted corpse of the one he loved, Courier will carry the weight of the lie and the deceit. Any trace of their past life was dead the moment the sun fell behind the hills in the distance in that horrible day.

But he's not looking at the sunset. He can't face it, he can't accept that the day is over and gone, because that would mean he has to live knowing a better life is possible. And that he's too much of a coward to ever live it. Or to even deserve it, because how could he dare to begin ask something like that? He hasn't done anything with his life that grants someone will give him that change. By accident, the universe saw him see the beautiful night sky that has been above his head all these years, and then wrapped her head back in thick black cotton bandages. But now, oh, now she knows. She can taste the freedom, she can see herself living without feeling that her face doesn't fit. She knows, but he's still a coward and his head is still covered. And as beautiful as the stars are, the total darkness is comfortingly familiar. What if the stars above fall from the sky and hurt him? Would she be brave enough to bleed for a better life?

—··🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

“ How did you know it? ”

Her own voice startles him. The words ran from his throat without permission, leaving him exposed. It's not that the doubt was fake; his ignorance was sincere. But he didn't felt ready to ask, to face it. Not today, not never. And yet he said it, why did let her talk?

“ The- uh- /she cleared her throat/, I mean-, how did you know you were a man? If- if I can ask. ”

She doesn't look at him when he asks. Suddenly, the pavement markings are the most intriguing work of all American civilization.

“I just… never felt right as a girl. Dresses felt restricting, and I was never one for makeup or anything like that. I was always down in the dirt, ripping my skirts from climbing in the trees and all that.”

He smiled slightly. Despite the pain, he missed those carefree days as a kid. Sure, he could still climb trees now, but never for play. Always for work, or to draw maps, or to spot enemies.

“And as I grew up, the idea of being a housewife or a mother or a woman was forced on me more and more, and I couldn’t take it. I just knew, deep down in my soul, that I wasn’t a girl, or a woman, or any of those things. So, I started dressing as a man, and fuck, I just immediately felt better.”

“I was in an in-between state for a while, but when I was hired to be a merc and met Medic, well-“ He chuckled, lost in the memory. “-All of us have a little device in our chest that makes the Uber work, so, seeing that, y’know, my body didn’t match up with the way I presented myself, he offered to ‘take care of that for me’. Turns out, he had studied at an Institute that was really knowledgeable about that sort of thing when he was much younger.”

“When everything was finished, and I looked in the mirror, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest. Both literally and metaphorically, y’know.”

Now, "he" was told "his" whole life that ambition and greed will condemn anyone to an eternity in hell. And dreaming about a new life with a new body and a new face would be aiming too far into the stars; maybe if Icarus remained content with a subtle tan, he would've flown for the rest of his life; lower, but safer. There's always been the ever present threat of being discovered, it haunts them even without mention. A spirit that wishes nothing more than to preserve everything as it used to be is often a result of fear and uncertainty; sentiments like this are strong in the war torn town that is Tuefort. "He" doesn't doubt that in their effort to obtain a stable social order the citizens of Tuefort won't hesitate to do what it takes for an outsider to fall in line. Nausea pools into "his" mouth, the sunset kissing "his" doubt with a beautiful array of pink and orange tones.

The pressure of marriage is an old acquaintance of "his". The only difference between the fragments that "his" subconscious mind let "him" access to and the experience that Courier describes is that he escaped before any compromise was set into stone.

The sky is pink, the shirt "he's" wearing today was white when "he" chose it, but the reflection of the sky makes it a baby pink. Suddenly "his" vision is purely Courier's face. "He" could tell him, for sure. But was "he" ready to say it? To anyone? To accept it himself? Herself? To accept herself?

"He" fiddles with "his" fingers as the silence conquers the air once more. What could even be said? What words to use? What tales to tell?

The sunset is setting, the sun is escaping and so will the only safe person "he's" even though could understand "him" (her?). Help "him" (her).

🗞️—····│

“ Eh- Courier. I've- now that you- before I just wasn't- ”

"His" words clash one into another like dominoes. The fear isn't even slightly less, even though he knows for a fact that Courier will accept his confession, secret. "He" can't look him in the eyes anymore. "His" palms pressed against the rough pavement, "his" voice comes out as a crack and as a cry, as the final agony of the day before it gives life to the night.

“Of course there is. It’s not something that you can really change. If you feel like you are a woman, then you are a woman, and nothing’s going to change that.”

He thinks back to a few hours ago, when Journalist had dressed up as ‘Olivia’. She had looked so much happier, even with the constant threat of Saxton Hale looming over her.

“Just…” He hesitates, unsure how exactly to word his thoughts, “Tell me how you’d like me to refer to you around other people. I know it’s a delicate process to tell people that you don’t fit with the box you were stuffed into as a kid, and I don’t want to, y’know, break that box open before you’re ready to. Just know that, in my experience, Snipes and Medic are safe people to tell.”

Realising how that might sound, Courier backtracks.

She started talking holding his gaze, but as her thoughts started to drag into messier territory, her eyes traveled to their intertwined hands. And even though she doesn't regain her initial confidence, a sparkle returns to her eyes; hope. For once, she felt as if there was a possibility of a better life or, even without show casting herself to the world, living would be a little kinder now that there was someone to trust. An ally, a friend and a confident. An alibi. She squeezes his hand as the replacement for a hug she's to afraid to deliver.

No. Journalist had admitted something very personal to him, and he had accepted her; shown her that she wasn’t alone. And, if he could help it, she wouldn’t be ever again.

Still, trying to be gracious, he shook his head.

“No, it’s… the least I could do. It’s important for people like us to stick together, y’know? And don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

He mimed closing his mouth with a zipper.

“I should thank you, too. You didn’t have to come out here to help me. But you did, and that… means a lot.”

Courier glanced towards the lowering sun, and, realising that there were, in fact, two other people inside the diner waiting for them, he stood up and dusted himself off. Then, offering Journalist a hand, he continued.

She grabs his hand, helping herself up. As she looks up at him, she has a feeling she will remember this moment forever. A friend hand helping her stand up in so many ways, inviting her for a meal. Is there any ritual as old and social as eating?

She's eating out with a friend. Honestly, she thought she'll never see the day.

˖ ࣪ ꉂ˙,🗞️.꩜‹—˖ ࣪

“ I had almost forgotten; it's been such an eventful day. I wonder if they'll be seated already. I believe Medic had a table for himself already, maybe they'll be waiting for us.”

As she called back the killer stare Sniper was piercing Medic with some moments back, her eagerness flatters. Maybe not. Maybe they're seconds away from blowing the whole diner up, they should hurry.

“ We, uh-, shouldn't make them wait. People are rather volatile when hungry. ”

And so, without letting go of Courier's hand, off she goes into the diner. Clear as day, Sniper and Medic are seated in opposite sides of a table, staring each other down. No waitress has taken their order, perhaps fearing collateral damage.

Journalist looks back at Courier, trying to communicate the situation telepathically.

He shared a quick glance with Journalist, then nodded. No matter how uncomfortable he himself was, not only did he not want to get kicked out of the restaurant, he couldn’t stand it if he made any more relationships worse.

So, taking a deep breath in, Courier stepped over to the duo.

“Sorry, guys. I’m feeling better.”

At the sound of Courier’s voice, Sniper looked over and took his other hand.

“You sure, Mailman?”

Courier ran his thumb over the back of his companion’s hand, and leaned closer.

“I’m sure, Snipes. Journalist here really helped me out.”

Sniper’s gaze flicked between Courier, Medic, and Journalist before coming back to Courier. He sighed, unlatched his hand from the other’s, and patted the chair that put himself on Courier’s right and Medic on his left.

“Fine. C’mere.”

She swallows her fears and sits in the last seat available, between Medic and Courier. She can't lie and say there was no fear in her heart when she stole a quick glance to Medic, for she has seen the ways he plays with flesh as if it were clay in his experiments in the dead of night. It would be an equally false lie to pretend she wasn't absolutely dying to know if he would consider helping her out the same way he helped Courier. God knows she would happily trade half her right lung for an opportunity to feel like a person and not a caricature.

The silence at the table is deafening. The restaurant is lively, their mood isn't. Even with Courier's presence deterring them from starting a physical fight, their stares reveal just how little they seem to grace each other's company. She steals a quick glance; Courier has been through a lot in just a day, asking him to also control his friends would be cruel. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She's played pretend her whole life; what's an hour more?

“ Thank you for joining us, Sniper, even with the -ahem- quite unusual meeting. I do wonder what the menu is going to look like, I rarely go on diners myself.”

“Yeah, ‘s no problem, mate.”

He glanced down at his menu, looking for something that would interest him. He wasn’t picky by any means, but he tended to stick to tried and true favourites. This being a diner, the usual fare of burgers and shakes was usually a good choice. Instead of a food recommendation, however, he decided to point out the obvious.

“Menu’s right in front of ya. Take your pick; Corey’s payin’.”

She opens one of the menus and stares for a good ten seconds at the names of unknown dishes before she realizes two big problems; she doesn't know how to pronounce any of these words and, more alarmingly, she doesn't know how to alarm Courier of the foods that could kill her. She doesn't even know the words for the foods that will kill her. It should be no problem, right? There are pictures in this menu, surely she will be able to tell my sight if a food will kill her.

Right?

She looks at her companions; Courier has enough in his plate already and she doesn't quite trust her bravery to last enough to strike a conversation with neither Sniper or Medic. She curves into herself just slightly, trying to eardrop into someone else's order.

ミ──✧──🩻──✧──ミ

He looked up from the menu, trying not to shy from Medic’s piercing gaze.

“Forgot to park the convertible far enough away from the base,” he replied, “I took a gamble on whether Sniper’d be in his van or not and lost.”

He felt Sniper’s hand reach for his under the table, and took it. They needed each other now more than ever.

Medic hummed thoughtfully. While his mannerisms gave away no insight into his train of thought, his eyes were a different story. One begins to wonder if those were the eyes he was born with, if anyone could be born with such a cold stare or if he took them from somebody else.

It's been carefully perfected to freeze enemies and confuse allies. Nobody can determine for sure what function they're fulfilling today.

‘Mmm, ja, I see. Well, better than Scout's runny mouth I suppose. I wonder, Courier, is Sniper here can keep ze secret. ”

│. ₊˚.❝ 📰 ❞—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

Oh, she's got a selection of words herself. Medic might be Courier's ally, but she's made no amends and she hasn't pledged to any side. But there's not a place for her to talk, not at this table. But God, if there is a time where one should be careful for their wording you'd think it be today.

The bravest waiter to even step on Tuefort comes at the table, ready to take their orders. Silence is deafening as the stares resist the intervention.

“You know damn well I can, doc. You’re lucky I don’t prove you right to explain why.”

He doesn’t continue, but from the look in his eyes, there’s much more behind that sentence than Courier knows about. Courier looked between the now five people at the table before landing on Sniper.

The tension between the mercenaries is so noticeable you'd think air had become butter with how difficult Journalist was finding it to breathe. She turns around to face the waiter who is, incredibly, not 5 kilometers away from them. She gives an apologetic smile, vaguely gesturing at Medic and Sniper, mumbling something about "businesses these days! Haha", before quickly making an excuse on the spot for their inability to order. She does, however, request more water for her to drink when she needs to avoid eye contact.

ミ──✧──🩻──✧──ミ

“Oh, apologies Courier, I was under the assumption zhat your and Sniper's bond would've...allowed him to discuss such matter already. I'd say, zhis is quite zhe unfortunate moment, Nicht wahr?, after all, Courier is zhe only person who really knows zhis lady.”