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meet-the-clown · 3 years ago

Text

prompt: how they meet pierre

word count: 2,245

“Alright, that’s it. Out.” Dell puts the brakes on, hard enough it sends Scout sliding out of his seat and into the dash. The hazy structure of the main base is only barely visible in the distance, but they’ve gone through the old broken down barbed wire fence and passed the stack of rocks that marks the start of the Respawn Zone, so it’s close enough.

“What? Come on, man. It’s still way out dere! I don’t wanna walk all d’way out dere!” Scout’s already hooking a hand around the strap of the backpack shoved between his feet, though, and when Dell gives him a pointed look, he kicks open the passenger door, too. “Dis ain’t fair. I didn’t even do nothin’.”

“Boy, I have had you in this truck for the past three days straight, and the last two of them without even stoppin’ for the night. It’s about time you get yourself on outta here, make those legs’a yers useful, and hike yourself the rest of the way,” says Dell. “It ain’t too far out there. Shouldn’t take more than a good half hour.”

Scout sucks on his front teeth and squints at the hazy shape in the distance. “Bet I can make it dere in fifteen.”

“Doubt it,” he says, because there’s nothing that motivates Scout into doing something quicker than a challenge.

“Nah, I totally can make it in fifteen. I bet I’ll get dere before you. I mean, seriously, you drive like someone’s granny. Out here in da middle’a da desert and ya never even make it up past fiddy.”

“We were on a curving cliff, for one, and for another, you don’t get no say in how I drive,” says Dell. “Last I checked, you don’t even got a license.”

“I kill people for a livin’,” grumbles Scout. He shrugs his bag over his shoulder, adjusting the straps of it. “I should totally be able t’drive without a license.”

“Well ya can’t. And if ya keep standing out here all day runnin’ yer mouth, there ain’t no way that yer gonna be able to get all the way to the base before I do.” Dell puts the truck back into gear. He’s hardly gotten it pushed into second before Scout takes off, hot-trotting across the dusty expanse of red sand.

Dell hasn’t been out to Stovepipe Wells since the first team up and vanished. It looks like Mann Co hasn’t been using it for anything since then, either. There are remnants of the last match scattered around; scorch marks on the grounds, big twists of metal that’s been blown apart. An old water tower has been knocked into a sharp angle about three miles to the east, one leg twisted out under it.

The base itself doesn’t look to be much better. Medic’s van is already parked up front, though it looks like he’s gotten himself distracted by an old, half-rotted coyote that manage to get itself trapped under a gnarly bit of metal. He pulls around to one of the side doors, pulling the pack of blueprints and paperwork out of the dashboard.

“Alright,” he breathes out, pushing open his own door. “Might as well get this done and over with.”

* * *

The inside of Stovepipe Well is even worse than the outside. Classic came long before Miss Pauling was in charge of the mercs, and it looks pretty much like whoever came before her just let them run wild. From what Dell knows of the group – arguably, mostly information that Francois has managed to sweet talk out of Miss Pauling’s briefcase – they didn’t really follow any of the sanctions that come with the job now, or the basic moral code that most people use to function.

It takes a special sort to function in their line of work, Dell won’t argue on that front, but the first team Mann Co employed had the bad tendency of taking things about twenty steps too far. The inside of the base is trashed, wires pulled out of the wall, furniture have blown up. There’s a hole melted in the doorway of what Dell thinks must have been used as the med-bay once upon a time; a room that unfortunately directly attaches to the only place suitable for his own workshop.

Dell likes Ludwig well enough, but the man is loud and distracting.

He steps over the hole in the floor and into the room. There are similar holes pit marking the rest of the room from whatever concoction must have been spilled. Classic must have left Stovepipe in a hurry; long-festered experiments are still strewn out on the various tables shoved into the room, and there’s a corpse that’s mostly nothing but bones half peeking out from under a bloodied sheet.

It’s been here long enough that the stink’s completely gone.

It’s going to need a lot of cleaning, but Dell would bet a pretty penny that Scout will end up doing most of the work for the doc.

“Let’s hope the shop ain’t in worse shape.” Dell sits his tool box down on a counter with a heavy thump. Something rattles. He eyes the counter, half expecting the whole thing to just give in.

There’s another rattle.

It’s not coming from the counter.

“Better just be a coupl’a rats,” grumbles Dell. “I’m not lookin’ to have any live experiments running around.”

No sound for a long few moments, and then the harsh puff of a whistle.

Not rats, then. Dell would have much preferred the rats. Scout’s good at killing rats, and Jane’s good at moving the bigger critters. But they don’t whistle.

Dell squints, giving the room another once over. There’s an even longer stretch of silence before it comes again. Is that coming from the fridge?

“Drats. Couldn’t just be a quick clean up.” Grumbling to himself, Dell walks over to the fridge and makes to pull the door open. It’s stuck. There’s something thick and gray at the bottom of it, pooled under Dell’s boots and sealing the door shut.

He takes a step backward, has to pull his leg so hard it makes his knee pop just to get his boot picked back up.

Grumbling even louder, Dell rubs at his knee, grabs his tool box, and heads for the workshop.

Something to be dealt with later.

* * *

The workshop might be in even worse condition than the rest of the base. Dell spends about twenty minutes trying to clear off a single counter, and then decides he just doesn’t have the patience for it today. The ride out here has left his back a mess, and his patience is just about run out. There’s no power, no lights, no air, just a bunch of broken mechanics.

Ludwig hasn’t shown up yet, and Dell needs to get something completed before going to bed or it’s going to drive him up the wall.

The smallest, easiest task seems to be that fridge. He grabs a half gallon of hexane out from under a pile of trash, and his wrench on the off chance whatever’s in that fridge needs to a swift disposal.

This time, Dell takes care not to step in the slime. He presses the top of the bottle to the slip of seal between fridge and freezer, just dousing the whole side of it. The foul but familiar scent fills the air, burning the back of Dell’s throat. It hisses, the rubber and slime both melting off of the door.

Dell counts to thirty and then gives the handle a good, solid yank. This time, it pops open with a wet, schlick. Unlike the room, the fridge has kept the scent of rot and decay sealed inside. With the power off, it’s hot, and wet, and everything from the beakers to the old glass trays have just sort of festered.

The head sitting on the otherwise empty top shelf, however, has not rotted.

It blinks at him.

Dell jerks backwards, fingers curling tighter around the wrench. The head is gaunt and pale, with bands of dark discoloration around the neck, right above where it’s been sliced off and burned shut. He has the biggest urge to check if the corpse on the other side of the room might be missing a part, but isn’t dumb enough to look away from a blinking head.

“What in the - “ Dell squints. The head looks very familiar. “Exactly how alive are you?”

The head stares at him for a moment. His lips are cracked and scabbed over. A tongue darts out and licks at them. “Debatable.” The voice is a hoarse, creaking sort of rasp. “Qui êtes vous?” And then, voice crackling even more, “ ‘ho?”

“Well, shit,” says Dell. A talking head in the fridge.

Somehow, this feels like a disaster jammed inside three other disasters.

He should have just gone and fixed the power, instead.

* * *

It takes about fifteen minutes for Dell to wrangle in Ludwig, and Scout comes along like the doe-eyed thing he’s been the last three weeks, and then they all sort of just stand in front of the open fridge like a couple of teenagers gawking over a dead cow.

“Zat is absolutely a head,” says Ludwig, cheerfully.

“Fucking gross,” says Scout. He sucks on his teeth. “Is it alive?”

“Oui,” rasps the head. He looks about twenty shades of unimpressed with all of them. Everything about him looks faded, the color drained out of his hair and his skin and his eyes, all grayed out and fuzzy.

“Aw, man, it’s French. Gross,” says Scout. He knocks his elbow into Ludwig’s side. “You wanna take it back and toss it? Bet if I catch it with my bat we could make it hit the fence line.”

“You will not,” says Dell, firmly.

Ludwig reaches in and picks up the head. He holds it uncomfortably close to his own face. “Hallo, mein kleiner körperloser Freund! I am ze Medic. Und who are you?”

Another long, slow blink. Another flick of the tongue over his lips. “A spy. Décomissionné...I think.”

“Ohoho, and very thirsty I would imagine! Come, schatz, let me get you a drink!” Ludwig sweeps off to the other side of the room, head in toe.

Scout says, “so, uh, dis is weird, right? I mean, even for us?”

“Yes, scoot,” says Dell, dryly. “This sure ain’t normal.”

He shifts from foot to foot. “What now?”

“I suppose...now I go call Miss Pauling.”

* * *

“I’m sorry. Can you, ah, run that by me one more time?” Miss Pauling’s voice crackles. The mobile phone hook-up is in Medic’s van, for a reason that Dell has never fully been able to understand. He can practically hear her tilting her head.

“There’s a talking head in the fridge of the med-bay. Haven’t gotten much outta him yet, but he says he’s - “

“A spy, yes, no, I actually got that part. It’s more the talking head bit I was stuck on. You are, ah, being serious, right?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Right, right, no, you are. Alright, this is – really not something I was expecting. Alright. I have papers, I’ll get them to you by tonight.”

Dell ventures, “papers that explain why there’s a talking head in the fridge?”

“God, no. I have no idea how that’s possible. No one’s used this base in years. By all rights, it should have starved. But I guess it doesn’t actually have a stomach? Not important, right, the papers. I believe they should explain who the head is, or was, or at least what body it belonged too. Whatever term you want to go with.”

There’s the sound of something suspiciously like a gun shot, and then a wet thump of a body hitting the ground.

She continues, “I can’t say much over the phone, but considering that our Spy is accounted for, and the others are all very much dead, I know that personally, mind you, there’s really only one spy it could be. If it even is a spy and not, well, a literal spy.”

Dell rubs at the bridge of his nose. “And who would that be?”

“Pierre Dubois. The last spy hired on with the, ah, original team of mercs hired by Mann Co, before the factions were split.” Another gun shot. Another wet thunk. “He went missing about six months before the rest of the team was decommissioned.”

“Missing.”

“Missing. As in, no one, including their handler, could locate him. We’ve looked since then a few times, but haven’t been able to pick up a trace. Engineer, picking up the trail is literally one of my jobs. The best we could come up with was that between his skills, company assets, and help from the old handler, he went ghost.”

Sometimes, Dell really hates his job.

He says, “but now yer thinking it’s less that he went ghost and more that he’s been sitting here like someone’s leftovers.”

“Exactly,” says Miss Pauling. “So, papers. I’ll have them to you by tonight. I’ve – really got to get this taken care of first. Just make sure that Scout doesn’t turn this into a mess.”

No promises on that one. He did leave Scout and Medic together, without any adult supervision. Lord knows they both need it.

Dell says, instead, “I’ll certainly try.”

A heavy sigh. “Thank you, Engineer.”

And then the line goes dead.

#My writing #fridge'verse #tf2 #tf2 writing

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meet-the-clown · 3 years ago

Text

more about pierre u.u

Prompt: decommission

Word Count: 1,001

“Alright. I know this ain’t the ideal time for it,” says Dell, dropping onto one of the stools that Medic and Scout had been using in their ‘races’ earlier in the week. It rolls a little under his weight. “But we’re getting ready to have the rest of our lot show up here, and we all need ta be on the same page before then.”

Pierre gives a slow, indolent blink and tilts his head to the side. “And what page is that?”

“Work. Well, er, current work, I suppose,” says Dell. He rubs at the back of his neck. “I know it’s been a – fair bit’a time for you, and from what I’ve been able to pick up, we’ve had a fair few changes in how things are done around here between your team and ours.”

“Oi. Ze lack of attempts on your life so far has told me zat much.”

“Right. Miss Pauling just thought it was best if I see about offering to let you back onto working for Mann Co. We’re looking for a spy still, and you’re...a little displaced.”

Pierre frowns. “I was under ze impression zat I still worked for zem.”

Dell tells him, “sort of. The rest of your team was decommissioned. You were sort of just left in this big gray zone. Guess no one ever got around t’doing yer paperwork.”

“Zen zere is no point in zis conversation,” says Pierre. He’s always bundled up tight, still wearing that woolen sweatshirt that Medic got from somewhere. It’s about two sizes too big on the man, the dark blue of it making his own skin seem that much paler.

It might just be a trick of the light, but it looks like there’s less color in his skin with each passing day.

Pierre pulls a stray cigarette out from somewhere, pinches it between his fingers but doesn’t seem to have anything to light it with. “I ‘ave spent ten years sitting in a fridge, mon ingenieur. And before zat, twenty years working for ze administrateur. Unless you ‘ave come to decommission me yourself, zere is nozzing to talk about, non?”

“...s’ppose not, when ya put it that way. Guess it was really more of courtesy t’ya.”

“Zere is...a lot of zat ‘ere.” Pierre pinches the cigarette between his teeth and leans forward, bracing his arms on his thighs. “Very odd, non? Very odd. You said you are missing a Spy.”

“Last one didn’t work out too well,” says Dell. “He was a fine enough fella, just not too quick on his feet. Couldn’t handle the field work, I suppose.”

“I am very good at field work.”

“Don’t have to talk yerself up none,” says Dell. “I’ll be honest. There ain’t been much talk about our predecessors before, but I can’t imagine you would still be up and kicking if you were bad at yer job.”

“Up and kicking. Is zat what you call being ‘eadless?”

“Up and breathing, then.”

“Better.” Pierre chews on his cigarette again. It’s a damned wonder he doesn’t just gnaw through the paper of it. “You ‘ave been wizout a Spy for long?”

“Longer than we’d like,” admits Dell. “Longer than we have before. A good six or so months. It ain’t the only slot not filled. Miss Pauling’s having a hard time finding people to actually take on the mantles. Her last pick, uh, didn’t go over too well on the other team.”

“Ozzer team. Yes. Your Docteur mentioned that.” Pierre mused, “we only ‘ad ze one team. Ze concept of – matches, he said. Non? Matches. Very odd.”

“Guess I can see how it ain’t the most usual thing,” says Dell. “Back before, they just used you lot for field work, I’m sure. We’re just - “ Dell waves one hand. “- testing...things, and all that.”

“Playing zeir games,” says Pierre, dryly. “Oi. I am very familiar wiz ze games.” He tugs the cigarette out of his mouth before it can tear through, taps the end of it like it’s already lit. “I will play zem more. It was very quiet in ze fridge. Very boring.”

“Imagine it was. I’ll just let Miss Pauling know where you stand. I’m sure Medic told you about her?”

“Oi.” A long, lapse of silence. Pierre tilts his head to the side, like he’s thinking something over hard.

Dell says, “I don’t mind answerin’ questions, if ya got them. That normally ends up fallin’ on me anyhow. The doc’s great and all, but yer gonna be hard pressed ta get a straight answer outta him. And scoot’s, well, he’s a good boy, but he don’t really get how things run too well.”

Pierre purses his lips, chews on the cigarette again. “Zere are… just ze two of you? Non, non, zat is wrong. Three.”

“We got others. They just ain’t come in yet. Got ourselves a soldier. A demoman. Other team’s got about four slots filled, but they ain’t come in yet ‘cept their spy.” Dell makes a vague gesture to the still mostly empty room. “We come out here to get things set up.”

“Zey will be ‘ere soon?”

“End of next week, there abouts.”

“And zey ‘ave been - “ Pierre pulls the cigarette out from between his lips again, waves it through the air. “ - already told of myself?”

“Oh. Well, pro’lly not. But I’ll catch’em as they come in and give them the quick run down,” says Dell. “I’d like ta say they won’t bother ya none but, eh, they’ll all pro’lly come ‘round to give ya a poke or two.”

“Pleasant,” says Pierre, dryly.

Dell asks, “you want me to try and find ya a light for that? Doc’s pro’lly got something in one’a these drawers.”

“For what?”

“The, uh, smoke.”

Pierre gives a long, slow blink. His gaze drifts to the cigarette very slowly, brows furrowing. “Oh. Non. It is fine. I ‘ave not ‘ad a cigarette in many years. I found zis in ze slacks Herr Ludvig gave me. Ah, non, medecin. You exclusively use ze names, oi? Albrecht ‘ated zat title.” His upper lip peels back. “Medecin. Espion. Ingenieur. You all do zings very oddly.”

“Well.” Dell scratches at the back of his neck, shrugs up one shoulder. “Ya can always just call me Dell, if ya’d prefer that. I don’t mind too much either way. Some of ‘em do, but yanno, they’ll just tell ya.”

“Dell.” Pierre says it like he has to test out what makes the sounds, and Dell thinks that it must have been ten long lonely years in that fridge. “Oi. I like zat one.”

#My writing #fridge'verse #TF2 #tf2 engineer #spy oc #pierre oc

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