#tf2 asks open

When I first showed up, Mr. Conagher showed me around the place, telling me what the job was and what was expected in specific when it came to my new duties.  He’d supplied the name ‘Dell Conagher’ when I’d left my ‘mister’ trail off to leave him room to, hand outstretched to shake.  But when he’d accepted my hand and shook it warmly, he quickly added “but around here they call me ‘Engie’ or ‘Engineer’”.  He’d introduced me to the others we met along the way, most of them having job titles instead of names, and only the ‘Soldier’ paid me any mind, calling me a ‘maggot’ and telling me I needed a haircut.  The others looked right over or through me, and went about their business.  The ‘Scout’ had been down the hall and turning the corner, and I was told it was probably best that way, seeing as we didn’t have much time to indulge his bag of hot air.  Then we got to the room marked with a red cross– the infirmary– and I met Dr. Ludwig, who took several minutes to give me explicit directions on when I would be and wouldn’t be allowed to enter, and exactly what I was and wasn’t allowed to touch in this room when I was.  He spoke rapidly in clipped syllables with a thick German accent and there was something very crazed in his face and gestures that unnerved me.  I don’t mind that he doesn’t talk to me much when I’m in there nowadays.  I imagine he doesn’t mind that I don’t ask questions about the messes I find in there.

I don’t mind much that none of them talk to me when we run into each other whilst I’m working.  It’s the nature of the job– theirs and mine.  Nine rough mercenaries killing nine other mercenaries day in and day out makes a lot of messes none of them have much time or energy to clean up.  That’s where I come in, and if they notice when the floors are mopped or the bathrooms and kitchens are cleaned and smell fresh, I don’t hear about it.  I may as well be a ghost haunting the place– in fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the mercs talking to a few ghosts around here, but they don’t say anything to me.  It’s fine, really.  The work gets done and I get paid– that’s all that needs to happen, I guess.  It’s not glamorous; it’s greuling, unforgiving, and nasty, but somebody has to do it.  Them not talking to me means I go without notice and nobody hassles me or eats up my time with inane social pleasantries.  Time is money, and I don’t have enough of either.  That’s why I have four jobs– two of them full-time.

The job at the moment is latrines, and it’s quiet now that the brassy voice over the speakers has announced the end of the round– whatever that’s supposed to mean.  What it means for me is that the mercs are coming back for a few minutes to finish recovering from wounds or respawn, grab a bite to eat, and hit the head.  Usually nobody bothers with a shower until after the last round of the day.  I’ve got the new, wrapped, latrine rolls stacked precariously high on the top shelf of my cart.   It’s restock day, and I don’t always know what these mercs are eating, but they can go through some paper.  Maybe they’re using it for something other than wiping their arses.  I don’t pay for it, so I don’t mind as long as they don’t back up the pipes or teepee the place with it.  The cart and I are in the corridor, positioned outside the swinging range of the latrine door, and I am arranging my bottles of industrial cleaners and assorted rags and cleaning tools when someone hurries past, trying to squeeze between me and the cart and the wall, at speed.  I get jostled into the cart, which knocks over the tower of toilet roll, sending them rolling all across the hall.

“Aw crap,” Calls the offender from the far end of the hall.  It’s the Scout, who is hesitating just long enough to say it, his brows furrowed and expression pained, “Sorry, Jack, but I gotta beat feet, okay?  I owe you one!”  Then he’s gone.

It threw me off, to be honest.  It was annoying to be bumped, and annoying to have to pick up the scattered rolls again, but it was strange that the energetic merc had even noticed.  Had bothered to apologize…

“There y’are, Jacky,” Chuckles the Demoman with a friendly smile to accompany his brogue, replacing a stack of three rolls he’d apparently picked up behind my back somewhere on his way past.  I stare after him, stunned, slowly moving to place the final roll I’d collected from the floor when a hand reaches over my head– all of these mercs are taller than me by a good bit– to grab the current one on top and pluck it off.

“Cheers, mate.”

I freeze like a cornered cat, staring with wide eyes, back and shoulders hunched up.  The Australian Sniper moves past the cart and swings open the bathroom door before recoiling back.

“Augh, strewth!  You’ll want to wait a tic before comin’ in, Jack-o.  ‘S like somethin’ died in here!  Need t’open a window, bloody hell…!” He goes in and the door swings shut behind him again.

What the hell was going on?  Was it something I was wearing?  No, couldn’t be, I was dressed the same as always in the work coveralls.  Taking several steps back from the cart, not sure where I mean to go, but only thinking I ought, I have a queer feeling that something is just behind me– the little hairs at my nape standing on end– and I freeze.

“... Good instincts.” Says a voice directly behind and above me, distinctly French accented, accompanied by the smell of cigarette smoke, and my hackles are up again.  Of all the men here to almost back into, it’s the sneaky one paid to stab others in the back.  The Spy.

“S-s…” I mean to apologize, but he’s already walking around me and the cart, waving my attempt away dismissively on his way down the hall.  He easily sidesteps to avoid the charge from behind of the other masked person, who looks over their shoulder at me and waves one gloved hand with a “Mmp-hoh!” before rushing around the corner to follow the Scout. That would be Pyro… the… Pyromaniac?  Is… is that their job?  How do you get hired for that gig?

“Ah, you’re here!” Greets Dr. Ludwig– or ‘Medic’ as he’s more usually addressed– striding down the corridor with the large Heavy Weapons expert– the Russian ‘Heavy’-- in tow.  They are both of them men with impressive presence that seems to shrink the corridor, and Heavy’s is more physical and literal, so I quickly move my cart so as to give them more room to pass as well as keep from blocking the Sniper in the latrine. “I appreciated your leaving me a few extra sanitized containers in the infirmary last time.  As soon as my delivery comes in, they will be of much use!  Have you been through today, yet, Herr Jack?”

“Y-yeah…” I stammer, glancing up, up at the mountain of a man looking down at me from behind the Medic.

He nods at me, curt, but not cold, “Jack.”

My name is not Jack.   My job title is ‘Facility Management and Maintenance’ which is a fancy way to say ‘janitor and general repairs’.  When meeting Mr. Conagher–Engie– that first time, I hadn’t given a name, and he hadn’t asked for one.  He’d asked instead what my work experience looked like, and I’d told him that I’d done a bit of everything.

“Oh, a jack-of-all-trades type, huh?” He’d smiled, and I’d agreed that that was a pretty accurate way to put it.  Then he’d asked me whether I was familiar with gunfire and explosions, and could work with that kind of ruckus going on, and we’d just never got back around to talking about my name, I guess.  I don’t mind.  ‘Jack’ is a fine moniker.  Better than being called ‘Janitor’ or shortening that to ‘Jan’ or something.

The cussing beyond the latrine door is more alarmed than disgusted, now, so I assume the Sniper found the source of the smell.  Whatever it is, it’s my job to take care of it, so I push my way in with my cart.  The windows near the top of the far wall had been opened– all three of them– and I can admit to being a little grateful.  For one, he’s right: it stinks something awful in here.  For two, to open those windows myself requires climbing somehow– sometimes using the cart, sometimes just grabbing the windowsill well and scrabbling up the painted brick and tile.  As the second tallest person on the base, the Aussie’s heels probably don’t even have to leave the floor to do the same thing.

There’s what looks to be the mangled remains of a human arm caught in one of the toilet bowls, and from the advanced decay and damage, I realize I have my work cut out for me and the daily cleaning is on the back-burner for now.

“How’d it even get in here?” The Sniper is taking care of his business in the next stall.  Before today, I would have been sure his question was rhetorical… but apparently everyone is talking to me today…

“The pipes.” I say, “So don’t flush or you’ll get the rest in your pot… if it doesn’t back up entirely.”

“Uh… you sure about that, mate– Wait… ‘the rest’?”

“Yeah.”

This might be the only place I’d ever worked where I have to spend a good chunk of the day disassembling half of a building’s plumbing to dig limbs and viscera out of it.  It takes me until the last round to dredge it all out: one left arm, one lung that might be human and… might not be… and something pale, organic, and spongy that I don’t bother trying to identify.  I’ll probably never know whether they ended up in the pipes by accident or if someone improperly disposed of them…

Nobody is happy that the latrines aren’t clean in time for their end of day showers.  Including me, who’s drenched with more chemicals and bodily fluids than I care to consider.   Damn.  Well, that’s how it goes: it was tough, nasty work, but somebody had to do it.

Without a wall muffling the sound, it sounds a little more human and normal– despite being in German, which I don’t know a lick of– and in a much higher and softer register than I’m used to hearing from the doctor.  He’s talking in his sleep– dreaming, I guess?  But what is he doing sleeping here instead of his bed?

“Doctor Ludwig?” I call quietly, “... Medic?”

He doesn’t stir, so I hesitantly step over and gently poke him in the shoulder with the pipe wrench, “... Doc?”

Suddenly his eyes are open and before he even sits fully upright, he’s swinging his bonesaw that I hadn’t seen under his arm.  I can’t tell whether he’s trying to yell words at me or not, but I don’t understand either way– it just sounds like a strange vocalization with multiple syllables.  His eyes are wild and his spectacles are so far askew on his face they are threatening to fall off entirely.  Fortunately, I was more or less expecting this reaction, and my reflexes are on hair-trigger almost always (lessons from the school of hard-knocks) so I quickly duck out of the way, moving to put the exam table between us, “Woah, woah!  Medic, it’s me!”

He’s mid-swing when I get through to him, and he blinks, face falling from anger into confusion.  With his free hand he adjusts his spectacles, and then smooths his hair back, “... Jack, what are you doing here at this hour…?”

“I heard you talking in your sleep, doc… Sounded like a nightmare, is all.”

There’s a harder edge to his confusion now, especially in his pale eyes when he says, “... I wasn’t sleeping, Herr Jack.  I was simply resting my eyes a moment when– Do you hear that?”

I’ve lost his attention completely, and he’s looking around the infirmary, on high alert, brandishing the saw he’d momentarily lowered upon recognizing me.  I hadn’t heard anything, and I tell him so.

“Shh!  Someone else is here!” He hisses, his shoulders and back tensing, and he’s searching his table now, overturning everything within reach in his rush, “Show yourself, du Witzbold!”

I am still very certain nobody else is here, but the look on the doctor’s face and the saw in his hand discourage me from debating that matter with him, just now.  I’ve heard too many of his stories to want to get on his bad side.  He’s an affable sort, but I get the feeling he’d still be smiling at me while pulling my guts out inch by inch while I’m still awake to slowly, painfully, kill me if the inclination struck him.

Whatever he was looking for on the desk, he doesn’t find, and now he’s casting about the rest of the infirmary while trying to keep his attention on every dark corner at once, eyes getting wider and wilder.  His near-panic is ratcheting up my anxiety, so I step near, hands extended placatingly, watching the saw.

“Doc… It’s okay.  Nobody is here but me… I’ve got a flashlight here, you want me to check those corners for you?  Check ‘em together?”

It occurs to me that it might be easier to just turn on the overhead lights, but the switches are back by the door and the Medic is already nodding at me with relief in his expression and stepping behind my right shoulder– so he won’t block my flashlight beam and I can block anything attacking from the corner, I guess.  I’ve already got the flashlight in my hand, so I click it on and make a slow sweep along the wall of the infirmary, trying to steady my breathing.  I tell myself I don’t really jump when it illuminates a long blood splatter.

“O-oh!” Chuckles the doctor, “That’s just from Scout earlier today.  He’s very bad about sitting still, you know…”

“Right…” I take note of it and add it to the mental checklist of things I’ll need to take care of before I leave the building in the morning.  Together, Medic and I watch the beam of light along the wall.

Suddenly he grabs my shoulder, squeezing tightly, and I am aware all over again at how tall and imposing he is– especially compared to me, “There!  I heard it again!”

“Where?”

He points with the saw and I turn the flashlight that direction and we’re looking at another wall and the edge of a poster from our mutual employer.  I hear him mutter something that’s probably rude in German.  I continue scanning with the flashlight beam.  We circle the infirmary once, but Medic’s hand is still firm on my shoulder, so we take another lap and find more of the same.  Nothing.

“It’s okay, doc…” I placate.

He lets out his breath in disgust, “I’m not crazy!”

“I know,” I say, reasonably, “You’re tired.  Should be in your bunk.  Get some real sleep.”

He wants to argue, but he lets out a sigh, his expression going slack, and he nudges his spectacles back and pinches between his eyes, “I suppose I am not making much progress now, in any case… Let me clean up my notes…”

He busies himself at the table, straightening up the papers and other materials he’d overturned in his frantic search earlier.  Finally he puts the saw down, and I can let out my breath a little.  I’d told him I knew he wasn’t crazy… but I can say a half-truth here or there pretty convincingly when I need to, and I never knew anybody to react well to being told they were flipping their lid.

He looks a little more composed after straightening up, but the dark circles are clear under his eyes, so I walk with him out of the infirmary and to the end of the corridor where we stop and he turns to me.

“... Thank you for your assistance, Jack…” He looks uncomfortable, brows furrowed.

“No problem, doc.  I’ll clean up that bloodstain and button the infirmary for the night.  You just get some good rest, okay?”

“Yes, good… And… if you find out who was playing tricks…” He frowns and shakes his head.

“I’ll take care of it,” I assure him confidently, flipping the pipe wrench in my hand, telling another half-truth.  There hadn’t been anyone else in that room, I won’t be smacking anybody with a wrench tonight, “Sleep tight, Doctor Ludwig.”

“Thank you.  Goodnight, Herr Jack…”

I watch him until he turns the next corner, then I sigh heavily and head back for the infirmary, swapping out my pipe wrench for a cleaning rag and bottle of Lysol disinfectant cleaning solution at my cart on the way.  Inside, I flick on the overhead lights as I pass the switches and make right for the bloodstain.  It’s a bit larger than I had first thought, but that doesn’t surprise me: Scout does move around a lot, and blood can sure spray every which way.  It’s when I’m trying to figure out what exactly I’m going to climb on to reach that high up the wall when I hear it.

It sounds… almost… like a voice.  Like a very soft, very muffled voice.  Turning around in place, every muscle suddenly clenched tight, I wish I hadn’t left my pipe wrench.  But nobody is there in the room behind me.

I can still hear it.  I hold my breath to try and pinpoint where it might be coming from, and my eyes settle on the fridge.

Oh.  Oh that’s fine!  I chuckle self-consciously and head back out to my cart to collect a couple screwdrivers.  Refrigerators can make all sorts of strange noises!  I’ll find where the seal is leaking or the condenser has a bad fitting or a loose wire or fan and fix that right up!  Tomorrow I’ll tell Medic about it and we’ll have a good laugh.  I pop open the door and stoop down and my eyes meet another set of eyes.

I had hoped to have most of these repairs done before the rival mercs arrived, but I am not that lucky in this life.  There isn’t a Blue facility anywhere nearby that I know about, but the entire reason the mercs are here is to repel an attack they’d been told would be coming.  I don’t know any details, and don’t ask any questions, but if I had to guess: it has something to do with the radio tower.  So the mercs in the blue shirts have arrived, and things are noisy and messy, but there is still some work I need to finish on one of the bridges, otherwise It won’t stand up to a direct hit from anything stronger than a stiff breeze, much less the Heavy and his weapon’s weight.  I’ve left the wood I’m using in place– in the vain and foolish hope that nobody has kicked it down into the canyon or blown it up or set it on fire (on purpose or accidentally)– and am carrying my toolbox through one of the quieter pathways, circling far out of the way of the fighting.

So imagine my surprise when blistering pain explodes through my arm and shoulder as a force hits me hard enough to throw me against the nearest wall.  I yell– I’m not sure what, probably something foul and unprofessional– and my tools clatter to the ground.  I’m stuck where I am, my arm pinned to the wall, and it’s through a bright blotchy film over my vision that I see the feathered fletching and last spare inches of wooden shaft through my upper arm and the rest through the wooden wall behind it.  There’s very little blood, but a whole lot of pain, especially when every movement tugs at the wound.  Beyond it, back the way I came, I can see the archer.  He’s lowering his bow instead of reaching for another arrow, and my heart is already beating fast.

“Ca-came all the way out this way just to shoot me?” I snarl, trying to tuck my shoulder closer to my ear to keep the damaged muscles from twitching screaming agony as they try to hold up the rest of my arm.

“You’re a Red,” He growls back, the timbre of his voice making his accent all the thicker, giving a one-shouldered shrug as he pulls out a big hacking blade from the sheathe hanging from his hip, “that’s reason enough–”

“-- Not very sporting of you.  I’m not even armed, you bogan!”  I don’t really know what that word means, but I’ve dealt with enough Australians to know it’s rude.

“Still a Red,” He reminds me, closing the distance between us but taking his time about it, bringing back images of every time I’ve seen a cat play with its prey, “And my mate tells me you not having a gun don’t seem to keep you from getting the drop on us… Fair’s fair, ain’t it?”

“In my contract to keep the briefcase–”

“--His job to take it from you, mate,” He shrugs again, flashing teeth in a lopsided grin that I can see clearly as he stalks through a thin dagger of sunlight peeking between wooden slats, reflecting off his yellow glasses with surreal glare, “No point whingin’ on about the job, hey?  We’re all professionals here…”

We might all be professionals here, but I’m a non-combatant and there’s something about the way he’s stalking toward me with that big damn blade in his hand that smacks more than professional.  He pinned me here so I couldn’t get away, and instead of putting one through my head or my heart, he’s coming over to finish me close and personal.

I tell myself I’m not going to let him see me scared.  I’ve been bullied by enough Australians to know they don’t let you live it down.  That’s true of everybody, I guess, but the folk from the Land Down-Under seem to me to not know what to do with all their good fortune–with all their brains, muscle, and impressive chest hair—besides look down on and make trouble for other folks.  This bloke is already going to tell his team I whinged on about how unsportsmanlike he was to hunt me down instead of picking a target that could fight back proper, and the way he’ll make it sound, I can expect a lot of jokes at my expense before going through respawn in the future.

That’s what this seems to be all about: insult over injury.  I bested his friend, the Scout– me, the janitor– and so he’s here to put me in my place.

He’s tall, like the Sniper hired by the company I work for, and there are a lot of similarities I notice as he looms nearer and nearer, flipping that big blade in his hand, glowering down at me from behind his yellow glasses.  It bothers me that I can’t see his eyes.  It bothers me more that he’s still showing his teeth, and the light isn’t as good now, so I don’t know if it’s still that lopsided grin or a snarl, now.  I can’t tell if he can see me clearly…

Because I’m telling myself I’m not going to let him see me scared, but… I’m scared.  I’m real damn scared.  I’ve died a good half-dozen times already, and respawned, but most of those deaths have been instant if not painless.  But this Death’s Head on a mopstick means to make it hurt, and maybe make it last, if he can…

“Speakin’ of ‘fair’...” He growls, well-within reach now, looking down his nose at me while the point of the big blade points just above my belly-button, and I feel my stomach pull in reflexively, “Nine versus ten, isn’t, wouldn’t you agree?  Some of us might be spewin’ after learnin’ the Reds got a maid–”

“-- I’m not a maid!  If you Blues want a tenth, take it up with your bosses!”

“Might, at that,” He shrugs, “but fer now, we’re takin’ it up with you.”

I’m scared, but I’m angry now, too, and I’m not just gonna stand here and die.  I’m not gonna make it so easy for him.  You paint yourself as an easy target, you’ll never have any peace.  I have too much goddamn work to do for this!

I’m not a professional killer or a mercenary, and I’m small with a much shorter reach, but he walked all the way over here, and I’m gonna make him regret that.  Because I fight dirty and I move fast– something his ‘mate’ apparently didn’t warn him about.  Before he knows it, my boot is buried so deep between his legs, he’s probably choking on his balls while croaking his protest of pain and his glasses have slid far enough down his nose that I can see his eyes bulge.  I don’t really get away with it– he’s pretty quick too, and his blade was already moving.  Maybe trying to stop me?  He’s chopped deep into my thigh, and the pain is blinding, but there’s another sensation that makes me think he’s hit bone.  It’s the same sort of sensation as on the other side of the knife, when I did some butcher work back east for awhile, and sometimes you thud right into a bone you’d meant to avoid or chop through.  I yowl like an angry alley cat and unload a few more colorful slurs not meant for the workplace, but adrenaline keeps me alert instead of aware of how much blood I’m losing.  The lanky bastard is losing his feet, trying his best to keep from doubling over himself.  He’s hurt me twice now and well, he was the one carrying on about fairness… Here I’ve got only one arm and one leg, so I press both shoulders against the wall and grab the arrow in my arm as close to the wound as I can manage to brace back, and use pain and fury both to kick my good leg up over my head to kick him in the face, shattering his glasses and his nose at once.

“Eat shit, you rabid mongrel!” I yell as he falls on his arse, sadly out of reach of more kicks.  I know I should hurt, but I don’t.  I feel light and my heart is still throttling with adrenaline, but I finally notice all the blood spurting from my leg and now my arm as well.  I have less than a minute before I die in this state, but something about this situation feels like a victory.  Maybe I’ll bleed out before that bastard gets up again.  Either way, he won’t be able to do me in the way he wanted.  Adding insult to injury, he’s gonna have to make up an excuse for his limp and busted face (if he survives the day) or explain that he got his arse handed to him by the janitor even after pinning ‘em to the damn wall!

A shotgun blast throws him forward, folding him in half in an undignified sort of seated position, his hat thrown to my feet and the back of his head removed.

“Jack!” Engie is alarmed, but I make the effort to stomp the hat at my feet, first.  Behind Engie, Pyro is running up.  Together they reach me, and Engie is looking over my situation with an expression that probably means he wishes one of his eleven degrees was in human or animal medicine about now while he passes the shotgun to his ally. “We have to get you to the doc right away!”

He’s digging in his pockets and I shake my head, feeling dizzy, my mouth dry, “Nah.  Just send me through respawn…”

“Can’t do that…” He says, pulling some length of… something– I can’t see well– out and unraveling it in his hands swiftly.  I look numbly over at Pyro who shrugs both shoulders with a “Mmp-hm-mphhp-mmp…?”

“Can’t do that,” Engie repeats firmly, tying the something around my leg, high on my inseam.  Painful tight, and I hiss, “It’s against the ROE’s, buddy.  Shouldn’t put extraneous burden on the respawn, so killing off allies ain’t looked at kindly.  Sorry, Jack, yer just gonna have to hold on.  We’ll get you to Medic and he’ll sort you out…”

By the time they get me yanked off the wall, the blue-shirted Sniper’s corpse is gone, already cycling through their respawn, and I’m barely with it.  I think someone slung me over their shoulder, but I couldn’t tell you who.

I come back around in a warm red glow, but I don’t have time to thank the Medic before he’s already rushing off after the Soldier to defend against another push.  Engie pats me on the shoulder, itching to get back to his sentries.

“Thanks.  He woulda got me in the end if you hadn’t got him…” I tell him quietly.

He adjusts his helmet and makes a sound in his throat, “He’s a nasty piece of work.  Ours calls him a ‘wanker’... but then, I guess he calls a lot of people ‘wankers’…  Anyway, you had him all but handled.  Might have to get you fitted with a kill counter at this rate.  And a real weapon?”

He’s grinning at me, and I wonder if he’s winking at me under his goggles, “No thanks, Mr. Conagher.  I’ve already got a full plate…” I sigh.  I’ve still got those repairs to make…

The Blue Sniper doesn’t approach me again, but he doesn’t have to.  He kills me three times before the end of the day– or so I’m told in the kitchen later when everyone is comparing statistics– and I go through respawn five times in total.

With the location change comes a few other changes in my duties– dispute over the bridge and canal notwithstanding– namely “accountability of company property”.  Because the facilities are so close together, it’s expected that any rival merc that crosses the bridge and no-man’s-land will end up in our building.  Means for a lot more messy cleanups, but also they might try to make off with anything not nailed down.  I’ve got a checklist of property I’m supposed to routinely make sure remains in our building, with photos, and one of those items (circled three times in red marker) is the locked red briefcase stuffed with papers.  Whatever this briefcase is, it’s so important that I was given a doo-dad that lets me know when it’s moved and its whereabouts, so I can find it and put it back.

Put it back on the desk in the open.  Not back in the safe where I put it after sunset (but before locking the huge vault door) and take it out again the next morning before sunrise (after unlocking and securing open the huge vault door).  I wasn’t given an explanation for this strange little ritual, and I know better than to ask.  This does mean a change to my hours, as now I’m here all day, and the company agreed to pay me hours-double to make up for the hours I’m losing at my other jobs.  I don’t know much about this Red company, or its practices, but I won’t complain about their tendency to just throw a bunch of money at any potential inconvenience that’s brought up without a second thought.

I don’t mind, either, the long hours in one place, as it means I can take a more leisurely pace with my daily routine.  The mercs, too, seem to have more time between rounds and at the beginning and end of the day.  The fighting is fast and frantic as they prevent a push from the other mercs, or chase them down if they sneak their way in– usually to try and take the briefcase.  There’s an alarm that goes off whenever the briefcase is taken out of the room it's housed in, which is helpful because the Blue company has hired a sneaky Spy-type too, and he gets away with slipping into the building more often than not.  The others have less subtlety, but sometimes audacity and willful stubbornness make up for it.

I don’t know which one of them has the briefcase now, but the alarm is still going and the dials on the doo-dad on my cart are indicating that it’s moving my direction at a good clip.  All the Red mercs are taking their positions or sweeping through both buildings searching, but it looks like it’ll find me first.  I don’t have time to re-mop or wax the floor at the intersection where the thief’s path will cross mine, but if I play smart, I might still be able to slow them up without getting killed for my trouble.  I take my work very seriously, and besides, my employers have made it clear that if they’re humiliated for putting their trust in me for maintaining their property, the consequences will be severe.

I don’t really care to find out what that means.  So I’m pretty twitchy about the damn briefcase.

The sound of running feet lets me know I’ve only got a few seconds, so I get my cart moving toward the corner, picking up speed on the downhill ramp.  I might be short and scrawny, but I’m tough and strong as I need to be, and whoever it is crossing my path probably did not expect to be blindsided and hit that hard.

“What the hell–” Yells the thief, bouncing loudly off the other side of my cart and into the wall before bouncing off that and to the floor.  I get a glimpse of the Blue Scout before I’m forced to duck around the corner of my cart as he abandons the red briefcase in favor of what looks to me like a sawed-off lever-action shotty, which peppers the side of my cart.  He’s busy reloading--still disoriented from the crash, hands fumbling-- when I come around with my 18’ pipe wrench, and no matter how quick he might be on his feet, he’s not faster than I am when he’s on his back.  That’s the rule when you’re the little guy– gotta be quick and sometimes dirty.  I kick the sawed-off out of his hands and swing down with the wrench.  It makes a sickening sound, vaguely hollow, vaguely wet, and he’s not cussing or squawking or moving anymore.  I’m not a merc and I don’t carry any weapons, just tools and cleaning equipment, but it’s my job to find this briefcase and put it back on the desk when I do.  I don’t have to like how it gets done, I just have to get it done.

Someone was shouting down the hall behind me, but they’ve gone quiet now.  I figure I’m doing a good enough job pretending like my heart isn’t pounding in my chest with my blood thundering in my ears when my Soldier ally lowers his rocket launcher to observe me stepping over to collect the briefcase and stow it on my cart.  The alarm through the speakers overhead finally quiets– I think it’s a proximity thing with my doo-dad?-- and I start rolling my way further down the corridor toward the room where the briefcase belongs, back the way the Scout had come.

“Well done, maggot!  Whatever third-world stink pile you actually live in, today you are an American!” The helmeted merc shouts at me.

“Do me a favor and make sure he’s dead?  Without making a mess, if you can?  I just mopped…” I reply over my shoulder.  The guy’s gonna be mad when he wakes up, either way, but I’d just as soon he wake up in his own building from his own respawn instead of right behind me.  The Soldier gives a chuckle and slings his rocket launcher over his shoulder by the strap, swapping it for the shovel on his back, and I am not envious of that rival Scout.  I’ve seen the Soldier’s collection of heads on the fence of the other base…

“Decapitations outside, now, I mean it!”

“Don’t nag me, son!” Is his gruff reply, “I know how to follow orders the first time!”

But I’m not a mooch, or a thief, and I know better than to rely on the charity of others, so I buy my own groceries and keep close track– labeling what needs to be kept frozen or refrigerated in the larger bases and rationing what doesn’t in my personal storage for when I’m at the smaller bases or working my other jobs.

Even more valuable than the kitchens with their fridges and freezers are the bathrooms with their latrines and showers.  This is my only job where I have access to use the showers– or at least there is a shower available and I have not been forbidden from using it.  I sleep in the back of my car, which is also where I store every earthly possession to my name, so if it weren’t for these bases with their showers, I would be bathing with a hose or a bucket at best.

So I don’t mind too much when my messiest jobs are also here on the larger bases.  Some days, like today, I’m doing my work in the middle of a battle, and even if the fighting happens around me without including me, I’m still involved in the mess.  That damn Blue Sniper likes to throw his piss at me whenever he gets the chance, that’s for damn sure, and he’ll pass up an opportunity to send me through respawn to do it, too.  I usually end up covered in someone’s blood, as well.  Earlier today, a bottle of CLP exploded on the shelf of resupply– Heavy and Engineer insist it had been shot through the wall by the enemy, but Medic said he hadn’t heard or seen such a shot– and I hadn’t wanted to ruin my mophead with it, so I’d had to clean it up by hand, which meant it ended up all over my hands and coveralls, and from there… it naturally ended up everywhere else.  So a shower was definitely in order.  A long one.

I know seven out of nine of these mercs don’t mind showering all together as long as there are enough showerheads to accommodate the business, but along with the other two, I very much insist on my privacy.  Nature has not been kind and life has been hard, and I’d rather avoid any questions about it and keep from fostering any loose talk.  Mind you, I don’t pretend any of them think highly enough of me to be a regular subject of conversation, but long hours in remote locations with nothing much else to entertain themselves… can do a lot towards making hardened war-fighting men into gossiping hens– I know it from experience.  So I pick hours I know the bathrooms will be empty– when everyone is sleeping, most often (Or if they’re at another base.  Or those lucky occasions when I finish early and they’re still fighting– though that comes with a whole slew of other risks…).

It’s the smallest hours of the morning, and I’m bushed after a full day and night of work.  I’ve skipped dinner (because who can stand to eat when that nasty Australian’s piss and shards of glass have been baking into you in the New Mexican sun all day so that when you open your mouth it’s all you can taste?) and all I want, really, is to be clean and get to bed. If I don’t dally, I’ll get about five hours of sleep before I have to drive back into town to start my morning shift at my first job.  If I’m lucky, nothing too crazy will happen around here and I’ll be able to catch up on some sleep tomorrow night.

Let’s ignore the fact that I’m usually not that lucky, for now…

Unlike the groceries in the kitchen, the mercs are required to provide their own toiletries as well as keep accountability of them.  Most have learnt by now that anything left unattended in the latrines is liable to be thrown away, blown up, set fire to, put in the freezer as a joke, or hidden and held for ransom or blackmail.  I’ve heard some loud disputes about the offenses, and it turns out some of these mercs are very attached to their soaps, toothbrushes, toothpastes, and shaving supplies of choice.  Me, I take what I can get on the cheap, though I was raised that teeth are an investment that you care for even if you can’t afford to wash your arse.  With four jobs, I should be able to stay in soap for a while, even with messy jobs.  Bar soap and bar shampoo go pretty long and are easy to store and carry around once you drill a hole and slip a string through each.  The shampoo is a bit of an extravagance, I admit, but I like that my head doesn’t itch like it used to when I washed my hair with the soap instead.  So carrying my two bars, ragged towel, toothbrush and toothpaste, and change of clothes, I enter the empty latrines and go about my shower.

The water pressure is good, but noisy– you can hear the shower from the corridor, even with the door closed– and the temperature control is questionable at best.  Hot showers in the afternoon and evenings, after the water spends all day heating in the pipes, cold showers in the mornings after the chill.  The water heater is in good repair, but is too small for as much new plumbing is in the base.  Fortunately, it’s positioned by the kitchen so there is enough hot water for washing dishes.  My shower is anywhere from tepid to icy, but I don’t mind much, because as I said: it’s better than a hose or a bucket, and anything is better than going to bed smelling like piss and CLP.  I’m taking my time, too, to lather up and scrub well, and rinse thoroughly.

I don’t hear the door swing open.

I don’t realize anything is wrong until I turn off the water in time to hear ‘Oh…’

The human voice startles me badly, and I whip around, cussing a fine blue streak as I remember my towel is still out of reach, and see the intruder.

Well.  “Intruder”.  It’s his bathroom as well– perhaps moreso than mine, even.  He’s not in his uniform shirt, and it takes me a moment longer than usual to recognize him without the hat, but there’s really no mistaking that long, long silhouette for anybody else.  Our Sniper is one of the worst insomniacs, so I’ve seen him trudging around the premises at this hour before.  At least this time he’s wearing his pants– I’ve seen him in boots and shorts before– which is more than can be said of me just now.

That he’s surprised me is bad enough, getting my heart racing.  But he’s staring, mouth going a little slack even, and that’s making me mad.  This is exactly why I shower at this godforsaken hour!

“... Bloody–-

“--I’m busy,” I snap, moving quickly to grab my towel, “Did you need something?”

My tone seems to help him remember himself and he blinks, wiping the lower half of his face with a hand in an attempt to hide how red he’s getting, averting his gaze.  Probably not as red as I’m getting, though, as I realize my towel is closer to him than it is to me, “Naw, just… thought it strange hearin’ the shower goin’...”

I scowl, “Just taking a shower.  It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure, guesso…” He rocks back on his heels, and I get the impression he’s itching to leave again and regrets his coming in here perhaps as much as I do.

“So keep your damn cakehole shut about it, alright?” I’m already hearing the sneers and jeers.  This work environment is tough enough…

He’s a mercenary– a fighting man– and an assassin, and has at least a foot of height over me, and is Australian to boot, and it’s around now he decides I don’t get to get away with reading him the riot act for walking in the toilet on the base he lives and kills in.  Especially not naked as the day I was born, “...Why’s it such a secret if it ain’t a big deal, hm?”

“It’s not anybody’s goddamn business, is all!  I’ve a right to my privacy, don’t I?”

“Sure, fine!” He grumbles, shaking his head and turning for the door, “Not like I go around talkin’ about coworkers anyway– I’m a bloody professional!”

Now it’s my turn to stare at him.  Did he just call me… his coworker?

The door swings again, and he lunges for it, cussing, shoving his way through the opening and out into the corridor.  I hear someone else exclaim, and say something about ‘bushman’, and oh hell, I think that’s Spy!  The door slams shut like a heavy weight is thrown against it, and I hear another, more muffled exclamation.  I don’t know exactly what the heck is happening, but I need to get dressed and get out of here!  Having one of these mercs see me naked is bad enough, but having a second– and the Spy, who specializes in blackmail, worst of all!-- is just awful.

I throw my clothes on without drying– pretty sure my shirt is on backwards, but I have worse problems and can fix it later– and shove my pant legs into my boots, bundle everything else under an arm, and make for the door, hair still dripping.  Spy is making some kind of threat on the other side of the door as I push on it to try and slip out.  Something heavy is pressed against it, though, blocking it shut.

“Uh… Everything okay out there?” I call loudly, “Can I come out?”

The weight moves away from the door, and it pulls open and then Spy grabs the door and pushes both it and me out of his way.  He’s in a temper, I can tell by the way his teeth clench around his cigarette even more than his icy tone.

“Move out of my way, Jacques.  I am in no mood for further delays!”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice, I flatten against the wall so he can move past, muttering what are most-assuredly impolite things in French, before sliding out the door opening.  Sniper is lingering, looking even more uncomfortable than before, rubbing the back of his neck, but before I can worry about that, he turns and points at me.

“... You owe me, Jack-o,” He tells me.

“What?”

“Spy was about to walk in and see you same as me, and if you think he would just let it go–”

“--Yeah, I get it, I get it…”

He beckons for me to walk with him toward the exit, his voice serious. “You owe me, mate…”

I’m starting to wonder just what Spy threatened him with, “Yeah, alright…”