Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miss Pauling hadn't needed to report in person to the Administrator for two days on the bounce in a very long time. Two days, bringing two separate, unprecedented emergencies. Unprecedented as far as the Administrator had to be concerned for now. 

Not that the second event was premeditated. Not that she would tell the Administrator she had anything to do with it yet. Until she had conclusive proof that what she ordered Soldier to do was for the benefit of the bigger picture - even if that really meant Miss Pauling's bigger picture - even the third degree would get her a death sentence here. So unprecedented both of her meeting topics would stay.

"Tell me exactly where we are now." 

Palms resting on her desk, the Administrator's hands were balled so tightly Miss Pauling feared she may break skin. Her boss had not asked what happened; she knew damn well. She had eyes on every inch of that battlefield. Which meant she had eyes on Soldier when, out of the blue, he bolted away from the conflict to sabotage the enemy team. She saw it all - until she didn't. 

All of the monitors in here were still showing picture, although most of them showed RED's base. The nearest visual she could find on BLU displayed their base as a speck on the screen, maybe an inch tall. The only preferable option to half a wall of static.

Soldier's rocket crippled its target: the electrical substation that routed power from the grid to not just the entirety of BLU's base on Gorge, but a good half of the battleground itself. (RED's side, of course, used a separate substation, for both RED and BLU knew better than trust each other with anything.) The electrics cut instantly. Every remote door or gate in the area, dead. That first point BLU managed to capture died too as the light in its foundations went dull, everyone who fought so hard to protect or claim it suddenly left wondering what the hell to do now. Even the sensor on BLU's spawn shutter doors went cold, slamming shut with the rocket's impact and cleaving the BLU Medic passing under in half. One silver lining was that they had half the sense for the respawn machine to have a backup generator - the dark cloud it outlined being, as BLU became trapped in their own spawn rooms, no one could see inside the walls of any part of the BLU base anymore. Plus the rooms were pitch black and the fridge didn't work and you could throw even the idea of air conditioning out the window, yet those qualms weighed nothing when shadowed by the singular truth that the Administrator didn't have eyes on them. Privacy was not part of their contract.

So when her boss wanted an update Miss Pauling, the diligent worker bee she was, had a full answer prepared. "BLU will successfully relocate to Double Cross before the sun comes up. I've already got the right people working double time on the plumbing," ha: double time, double cross - no, that wasn't a joke to make here, "and I've already triple-checked the wiring in the cameras: you will have full visual on BLU across the base."

Tick. Next item on the agenda. A trickier one. "RED will begin being relocated by noon. I, however, have no plans to bring them to Double Cross too." She waved her pen in the air. "For starters, the sewage is worse on their side, moreover there are still some... kinks we need to work out with RED before I'm comfortable sending them back to face BLU. Especially not to a base comparable to an outhouse. I'd like to suggest that each team have a week's leave while we sort this all out."

Miss Pauling may as well have suggested an all-inclusive complementary vacation. "These men are not babies," the Administrator sneered at the proposal. "The RED Soldier may have brought our attention to a crucial flaw in Gorge's design, and also to his head if he thinks he can get away with blowing up whatever property he feels like instead of his enemies, but he should not get a pat on the back nor a time-out for it. He is our employee. He should get back to work." 

Glow from the monitors settled in the deepest hollows of the Administrator's sombre face, her chair slowly turning to face her assistant. "If we threw up our hands every time something of inconvenience happened then this war would never get fought, Miss Pauling. Keeping things such that there's still a battle to fight each day and weapons to fight it with is why I have you." Her glare threw daggers that pinned her assistant to the wall behind. "Solve this. The last thing we need is them getting lax on us."

Miss Pauling didn't like that answer; which bugged her. She tended to be more tolerant to even the worst of them. Nevertheless the idea of chugging along to the schedule while her work environment crumbled around her made that little voice inside her head scream. She could do it, sure - she could do anything! She didn't blow that substation up for nothing - but the result would be bound with duct tape and prayers, and the idea of putting one step forward towards a solution like that, when her choice of solution really required a delicate hand, brimmed dread within her. 

Arguing with the Administrator would never be something she'd stoop to, she mused, biting her lip, but it was her place to advise. It'd be her negligence not to make a valid point when given the opportunity. 

"They may not be babies," Miss Pauling conceded. "I'm not looking to give them any charity, that's for sure. But, if we choose to work them when they are clearly unfit to perform their jobs in their full capacity - such losing battles they should be winning, or failing to realise when the enemy has rather unsubtly marched behind their enemy lines," she rattled off, "then, I've got to ask: what are we paying them for?" 

To her eternal fortune, the Administrator didn't meet this with a curt remark.

Her fingers flicked over the pages of her to-do list. Over images of water damage, and the RED base's one broken camera, and the smoldering husk that used to be the substation. At no interruption from her boss, her arms fell to her sides. "We're beyond denying that it would be invaluable to have some time to reinforce our facilities without having to worry about an extra variable. And, I'd argue, they would only have the opportunity to become lax when we're busy tripping over our own tail," she offered. Fighting her voice from growing quiet.

"One week; maybe not even that. Unpaid leave. BLU stays on base where you can see them; frame it as compensation for the power cut. While I deal with RED," she asserted. "You employ me to handle these things efficiently, and this is the course of action I suggest. The gravel isn't going anywhere in the meantime."

It was nice to feel valued in her job, Miss Pauling thought, her Vespa dipping into the RED base's deserted parking lot with its driver wearing a big old grin on her face. The Administrator agreed to her plan. The Administrator had motivations and plans beyond Miss Pauling's pay grade, and that was fine; she would never come between her boss and her goals. But it was a pleasure to see some space accommodated for Miss Pauling's guidance amongst the calculated monotony. Leaving her to work with RED took a weight off of everyone else's shoulders (although she suspected the Administrator would immediately find new weight to saddle herself with, given the woman didn't seem to believe in taking it easy). Biting the bullet and factoring in this downtime, plus letting Miss Pauling deal with the issue within RED on her terms made, on paper, everyone happy. Christ, it gave Miss Pauling the opportunity she needed to tend to the RED Heavy and Medic without distraction. All she had wanted. It didn't remove one last problem, though: Miss Pauling still had contracts to get done. Not to issue for the mercs; they existed, but they could catch up later. Miss Pauling worried about contracts she was expected to do. She had people up and down the state that needed to be in a shallow desert grave on time, and while she could delegate some, she couldn't be there digging the crucial ones if she were stuck in the Badlands making notes on these nine. Luckily, there was an easy way to solve this. She was strolling across the lot to him now.

Sniper stood on the port side of his camper with a bucket and sponge, scrubbing away at some mark on the paint. Sunbeams berated the lot, his sponge drying in the hot air after only a few wipes. Constantly leaning down to dunk it back in the soapy water couldn't be doing his back any favours. Not if the cussing under his breath were anything to go by.

Miss Pauling approached with an easy smile, motorbike helmet tucked under her arm. "Need a hand?"

He lurched at the sound of her. Clearly he missed her moped pulling up - his tunnel vision was as strong as ever. Realising she posed no threat, he shook his head, grumbling. "Bloody Pyro," he muttered when she got close. "Made the mistake of taking an interest in something he was drawing in the mess a few weeks back. Now he thinks my van is an alright canvas."

Sniper's sleeves were rolled halfway up his bicep, his hands black. "What has he been drawing?"

"Nothing too dissimilar to this." He took a step back to dunk the sponge.

Her hands jumped to her hips as the two of them stopped. Black, deliberate smears in what smelled like motor oil were scrawled onto the side of the camper, looping over and over and doubling back. Sniper's hard work was unnoticeable: either the makeshift paint wasn't going to budge; or when it did it got lost in the chaos all over again. One particular stroke, she noted, grew from the right corner straight to the roof, as if in bloom. Fluid yet intense. Not that Miss Pauling fancied herself an artist, but it didn't take a scholar to tell these strokes had intent. Shame she didn't have the slightest idea what those intentions were.

They stood without speaking, the only sound between them the occasional sloshing of water. Her eyes flitted to Sniper between glances at Pyro's handiwork. "I could get you a nicer ride, if you'd like," she floated his way. "One that hasn't been someone's art project yet."

"Don't need it," he said. Didn't even look at her while he did. "Nothing wrong with this one."

She tilted her head. "Maybe. But it could be fun to shake things up. You've got a whole Summer ahead of you! Wouldn't it be great to be riding around in something with, I don't know, more leg room?"

"Nice idea. But my legs already fit fine, mate."

She hummed. "What about decent air-con?"

Sniper opened his mouth to respond but paused, his arm suspended. The squeak of the sponge against the metal stopped. "It's sounding a lot like you don't much care one way or another what I really want here, Miss Pauling."

"What, does nobody take over-eager enthusiasm at face value these days?" Her brow raised, as if she could continue to play along like he hadn't realised what she was doing. She wanted something. He knew it.

Her lips pursed.

"Alright. I need a favour," she admitted. Her tone stayed casual, still subtly persuasive, but her words became clipped. "Do it, and I can rent you a top of the line RV for a week. Buy it for you outright, if you're lucky."

"Already said I don't want it."

"The favour comes with the RV," she pressed through her teeth. "I was trying to lead with the good news."

Good or bad, Sniper still didn't care. When he went back to cleaning she leaned against the hood of his camper, helmet placed besides her as she folded her arms. "Look," she started again, staring past him at the heat shimmers on the horizon. "You know I know you've found yourself on an unplanned reprieve from work for the time being. For a week, to be precise. A whole week of... Doing what, exactly? You haven't had the notice to approve any excursions. So it's a week of being stuck in your base, maybe paying a visit to the local town to remind yourself there's nothing to do there. And during this week, it's my job to keep an eye on you all. But that doesn't suddenly mean I don't have other work that needs doing."

Her eyeline panned back to him. "So hear me out. You all come with me. You drive, Sniper, so I can still get some work done on the road, and - between you and me," her gaze shifted from intense to playful for just a moment, "so I can spend my time keeping an eye on the other guys and not the sign for the next exit. We'll need to stop in Sierra County for a hit, but beyond that," Miss Pauling grinned, "think of it as a vacation."

Sniper merely stared at her, deadpan behind his glasses, as he wrung the sponge in his grip. "You need a chauffeur." 

"Your help would certainly be appreciated."

"Would I be getting paid?"

"No," her smile faltered; she wouldn't be telling him that his salary was being docked right now, either, "but you'd have input on the route. Make whatever pit stops you want, within reason. And I can get someone out to industrially clean this old thing too, as a tip."

"It's a nice deal, Miss Pauling. But I'm not interested."

"Come on! It seems pretty interesting to me. You don't get cabin fever; I don't get fired." She punched him on the shoulder. "Do you really want to spend a week cooped up on base with those guys?"

"Better than in a small metal box." He volleyed back. And he had a point. There were better people to spend hours on the road with, nevermind a better eight people. 

The two of them stood in silence, Miss Pauling watching Sniper scrub as she pondered what her next angle could be. As much as she wanted to keep the negotiations of this arrangement just between the two of them, perhaps she wasn't the right person for convincing him. Moreover maybe he wasn't the right person to convince. 

A figure, all the while, had been pacing along the perimeter of the base, and now they turned her direction and began jogging her way. He would do.

Bat and ball swinging by his sides, Scout's face blossomed as he got close enough to confirm the identity of Sniper's companion. Scout's very red face, upon a double take: blistering and shiny with either lotion or something that needed it. The outage yesterday meant the match's timer never ran out, and no member of RED opted to head back when they could stay outside as long as they liked goading BLU - Scout being no exception. 

"Miss Pauling!" He cheered, fist held out for a bump she lazily returned. "I feel like I've been seein' you more and more around here! Whatcha up to?"

Sniper responded for her. "Just talking."

"Yeah?" His attention shifted to the camper. "Just talkin' about what? About Pyro's new masterpiece?" He sniggered. Sniper's face twisted in such a way that told Miss Pauling Sniper probably took his camper out to the edge of the lot to clean for a reason, and that same reason was probably the anchor holding him back from slamming Scout's head right into the camper's side window. Probably for the camper's sake.

Miss Pauling didn't see her head going through any windows anytime soon, so she turned to Scout with a tight expression. "I've been asking Sniper if you guys might be willing to hit the road with me for a job, but he says he doesn't want to drive."

Sniper's mouth pressed itself into a thin line. He didn't outright object to that interpretation of events. Instead he left Scout to his surprise, to then flounder and then be excited, as he outstretched his arms and guffawed, "Miss P, forget about him: I'll drive you!" And from the smile he cracked she knew he thought himself her saving grace.

Sniper just scoffed. "Like you know how to drive an RV."

"Of course know how to drive!"

"A motorbike, maybe," he waved off. "Lot different than a camper, mate."

"Gimme a break." A swagger in his dismissive step, "Drive, schmive: once you can drive one thing, you can drive 'em all."

"Then why the hell do you keep askin' me to drive you to the post office when you want to mail something to your ma? The van's right there."

Scout's cheeks, in some marvel of both nature and the visible light spectrum, flushed an even deeper red. "Because who's supposed to stop for tacos with me on the way back?"

"You can always get tacos by yourself, mate. You're a grown bloody man."

"I know that, dipshit. But what, do you want me to go get tacos without you?"

Sniper hesitated. "Nah. That's fair enough."

Witnessing the exchange was reminiscent of something. The last time Miss Pauling went to the zoo, maybe. The way the animals would completely ignore a busy young lady staring at them without a shred of subtlety to fling their own shit at each other. Tacos and RVs were unlikely to be what the monkeys were chattering to themselves about, mind. But you could never tell.

"So," she clapped, turning to Sniper. Preferably she'd like to be done with this conversation before next week. "Are you willing to put the keys in Scout's hands? Or are you going to reconsider? Because, not be a downer, but you're going to come either way."

"Woah, woah, what keys?" Scout glanced between them. "The keys to his camper?"

"No, mate, she's offering me a new ride if I drive us around for a week," he whispered aside. "Keep up."

"A top of the line RV," she accentuated. "Not the most comfortable experience for ten people, I won't lie, but you won't find a better drive." She felt like she were in a commercial.

"So, so," Scout hurdled over his incoming thoughts like a newborn foal. "A road trip! With Miss P? Oh my god," his eyes narrowed at Sniper, "why the hell haven't you said yes yet?"

"Don't particularly want to," he shrugged. Scout's energy bounced right off. "I'm happy with what I've got, and I'm not in the business of taking on favours without compensation." That last point made sure to shoot its barbs in Miss Pauling's direction. 

"Do you have screws loose up there or something, Captain Kangaroo? Why don't you want a new camper?" He rapped a knuckle on the current one's metal body. "This hunk o' junk's rusty as hell and reeks of piss!"

"There's nothing wrong with it," he insisted, dragging Scout's wrist away. The black graffiti a perfect backdrop to the claim. "It's mine. And it's never let me down before."

"It reeks of piss."

"It smells fine."

"Your nose sure doesn't!" He jabbed the end of his bat into Sniper's chest. "I promise you, pal, you're not gonna pick up any ladies in a van that smells like a urinal," he insisted, shooting Miss Pauling a knowing glance - because of course, she'd know these things. "You're probably why I don't get to come back with any girls."

"Yep, that's gonna be why. It's me, mate."

A lightbulb lit over Miss Pauling's head. Swing the other way. "What if I throw in a year's supply of Jarate supplements to sweeten the deal?" 

Sniper paused, his attention switching back to her. His face contorted into some sister of surprised, baffled, and plain pissed off. "What, are you gonna ask if I'll do it for a Scooby Snack next?"

"Well, what do you want?" Scout shouted at him before Miss Pauling could retort. "She asks a favour, you say you need something back; she gives you something and you say you don't want it! There's the compesh- compensate-" he growled over the word. Then gripped at Sniper's collar. That didn't need enunciation. "Just say yes, man! If you don't, then she'll just go to Engie or something, and if he ends up with the radio then say hello to a week of country music!"

That stopped him dead. To be honest, Miss Pauling hadn't considered Engineer as a candidate for the task - partially because she didn't expect Sniper to say no - but Sniper certainly hadn't. And Engie wasn't a bad guy. One of the most reliable to be found around here, in fact. But while Sniper may not have been thrilled to be bothered in the first place, being out of control in a situation that was meant to be in his domain irked him. 

Scout had his reliable moments too, Miss Pauling noted. She didn't appreciate him interrupting situations she could handle herself, but sometimes she couldn't deny his results. Not someone to trust with calling the shots anytime soon, god no. Yet he always had her back when he knew how. Even, sometimes, she mused as Sniper stood there as if uncomfortable in his own skin, when he didn't. 

"Fine," he relented. "But only because those pills are so bloody expensive."

By early afternoon she had returned with the RV. An eggshell colored twelve seater - closer to ten, given this group - with bronze accents, complete with a table, overhead locker and sleeping space, and the tiniest kitchen she had ever laid eyes on. You could live out of this, provided its interior carpeting didn't drive you insane. She had always held a fondness for recreational vehicles like this; a wonder chirped in the back of her mind of how cool it could be to hit the road for months in one of these, no one knowing where you were going and never being away from home. Not that this was what this was. This was still work. Maybe the next time the government got on the Administrator's case she could - no, of course not, because life wouldn't just stop because the New Mexico Department of Labor said so. Nothing on this planet could tear Miss Pauling from her assignments, even if it meant making an impromptu getaway to get it all done in comfortable time. An impromptu, not-quite-cleared-with-management getaway. With her employees. Did she really need to clear this with management if Miss Pauling herself was management? And these guys were vital equipment in getting her work done. 

She had sent Scout and Sniper back to their team with a brief: to make themselves useful and accompany her for some off-site contracts. To pack light; and though their assistance was not guaranteed to be called upon the chance was never zero, so to pack what they needed to get the job done, too. To her delight she pulled into the lot to find the team clustered outside, overnight bags sat on the dirt besides them. Some faces were more animated than others.

She hopped out to watch the troops begin to set themselves into motion. Sniper approached her, a New Mexico road map unfolded in his hands. 

"US 85 south?"

"That's what I said. We have to get to here," she pulled out a ballpoint and pressed it into the map, marking one rest stop in a long stretch of desert, "as close as you can to nine twenty-five tonight. No later."

"Consider it done, mate," and she tossed him her keys.

Soldier took command of loading the vehicle as Miss Pauling paced the lot; one final sweep before they said goodbye the area. There were men already on their way to clean up the base, to empty the trash cans and wipe soda spills and make sure there wouldn't be anything nefarious rotting in the back of the fridge, and then there were men to make sure the first group wouldn't have the chance to say anything about whatever they found. From a distance she watched Soldier conduct his comrades. With the motions of an air traffic controller, he attempted to perform bag checks on his companion's luggage and narrowly missed a clock in the jaw for it, and her stomach fizzed with something new. A feeling reserved yet excited, swirled with a pinch of dread. This would be strange, she had already accepted. It would be tough, scary work. But watching them bicker, the RV and all its passengers to-be just a feature of the landscape, part of her hoped she wasn't naïve to think it would be worthwhile. All of them, she began to count, bar...

Pyro. Behind her, a few feet back towards the outer wall of the base, they stood stone still. Looking up. Their duffel bag slumped next to them, dejected, sported a stain that appeared as though something had leaked from inside a long time ago and never quite dried.

"Hey buddy!" Miss Pauling had a voice built for kid's entertainment. "What are you up to?"

Pyro did not respond.

She approached, waiting for their reaction. None came. So she found herself shoulder to shoulder with them. The only sound in earshot the gentle rustles of Pyro's suit against the breeze.

Miss Pauling followed Pyro's line of sight to a small gray box on a crooked neck, leaning out over the wall: a camera. From observations in her morning meeting she already knew this camera hadn't been affected yesterday. The Administrator would be watching her right now - after all, what else was there to watch? Yet Miss Pauling couldn't tear her eyes away from that pinprick lens eye. What would the Administrator make of Miss Pauling staring back? Proof Miss Pauling was willing to back her decisions, unflappable as always? Or would it be seen as a conscious admittance of guilt?

"An interesting view indeed," Spy remarked. Appearing between them without even a footprint in the dust behind. "But not interesting enough to be worth missing your ride."

No. Right, of course. Ushering Pyro along with her, she thanked him and began her march towards the vehicle. But Pyro's gaze straggled behind on the camera regardless.

She had left her folders on the RV's main table to claim her a seat around it. She took the one spot facing away from the direction of travel - easier to see everyone else's faces this way - as Sniper, already buckled into the driver's seat, removed his hat from the spot next to him. Pyro climbed in.

"Why does he get to ride shotgun?" Scout complained. After all he did to Sniper's camper, it was a worth a mention. 

"Murr hurr mphruh muphrrph huh nyuh." 

"You tell him," Sniper nodded, and turned the keys in the ignition. 

As much as part of her wanted to lean back and enjoy getting this far, Miss Pauling very much did have piles of work to do. If anyone cared about her claiming that table as a workspace they had the sense not to bring it up - if only because she had her mobile phone glued to her ear and wouldn't listen to them as long as she had business to attend to on the other end of the line. In a roundabout way it worked in her favor: with her attention so captivated by her work, nobody would think she had any spare to spy on them. Between dial tones she caught glances of Engie and Spy on the other side of the table; sometimes they talked and often they didn't. Out of the corner of her eye Scout, Soldier, and Demo had claimed the back of the van, and were discussing the rules of some card game when it was clear not one of them had thought to bring a deck. And on the other side of the aisle, Heavy and Medic sat in a much more comfortable silence. Medic read. Heavy had a book out and every intention of reading it, but Medic had brought Archimedes (she vaguely recalled overhearing some complaints about a bird when she arrived) and he had resigned himself to cradling the dove in his hand, whispering threats not to perch on the dashboard. But Medic read. Not medical documents, she could tell from the shape, but some paperback pulp item she wouldn't have chalked him up as being fond of. He held it too low for her to steal a glance at the cover.

So when night fell, the RV trundling off the highway into a parking lot almost as deserted as where they started, and one by one everyone slipped out into the cool desert air, Miss Pauling made sure she went last. If he didn't miss the book when he left it on the bus, then he wouldn't miss it in her pocket.

Sam's Shine & Dine 24/7 Roadside Diner was not a place Miss Pauling could say she frequented. For one, she didn't know who Sam was, nor did she care to learn what it was they shined, but it was certainly a place where her merry band could dine. It was also where, tonight, one of her marks would be turning up, to eat what Miss Pauling would make their final meal. Until they appeared, she sat tight in one of a string of booths, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, front to back, with the rowdiest crowd the waitstaff would see that night. All in the name of work.

Miss Pauling chose her seat carefully. Flush against the wall, not a window, so she couldn't be seen from the highway. Of the three booths her party occupied she sat herself in the middle one, so if you looked from either end of the restaurant's linear layout she would be blocked by the mercs' larger statures all around her. The polish off the silver bar counter gave her a mirror's view of any movement behind her without needing to turn her neck. Not to mention, any ruckus her company made would detract further attention from her. Now she only needed them to handle themselves well enough so they didn't end up grabbing her attention, too. 

Outlook looked good: she shared her booth with Engie and Pyro, who could keep each other busy. Engie had table manners and knew better than to raise his voice in a place like this, furthermore Pyro trusted him enough to follow suit. Soldier might occasionally scream in her ear from the booth behind, but as long as he stayed out of hers, her concentration would be just fine.

Nine twenty-five was six minutes gone. Miss Pauling didn't fret. In the yellow glow of one of the few streetlamps dotting this stretch of highway she could see her mark's 18-wheeler. It had been parked there when they arrived, right on time. The mark would check over his rig first before wandering in to grab a bite to eat, as he always did. He'd get to enjoy it before paying and leaving: which would generate a receipt. Once there was proof of his presence, she would follow him out into the overcast night, and in the desert darkness no one would notice her kill and bury him barely twenty feet off the road. By ten o'clock another team of hers would be in to pick up his truck - by which point Miss Pauling will have swapped its plates with a decoy - and while the original was driven away back to Teufort, the decoy would continue down its expected route until some twelve and a half miles into Texas, where it would go missing in the desert. And the half-ton of cargo currently sitting in the diner parking lot would land safely in her hands.

But for now, the mark must have still been busy on step one, for Miss Pauling hadn't seen him come anywhere near the diner's door. Giving her ample time to examine the book she... borrowed. Hands strictly below the table to obscure her actions, she snuck the paperback from her skirt pocket to lay on her lap. The fact it fit in her pocket at all was a marvel. It was a light thing, barely a hundred pages and likely slim enough to fit in Medic's inside coat pocket, the perfect travel companion for filling idle moments. Printed on cheap paper with 8-point font; the title read Carmilla. 

She flicked through the pages: 19th century vampire novel by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu written some quarter decade before Dracula, about a fair maiden and the beautiful, antagonistic creature of the night plaguing her - or something to that description. Yeah, Miss Pauling had heard of it, though she had never found the time to get around to it. It pretty much had built a home on her 'to read' list. Nor did she suspect Medic had the time for fiction either (in his perfect world, she supected he would much rather spend every waking minute enacting a horror novel, not reading one), yet the edges of this copy were well-worn. Its pages buckled under gentle force, as if they had been turned many, many times before. Perhaps this copy was bought secondhand, or landed in his possession long ago and festered on a shelf waiting for its chance to be cracked open. 

Paper quite unlike the others poked out from between the pages. A yellow strip of lined notepad paper, in fact. She slipped her thumb in to open to the place it kept.

"Taking things that do not belong to us, I see," Spy hummed besides her, eliciting a shriek. Reflexively she dropped the book, and while the paperback plopped right back into her lap the bookmark fluttered away; it didn't hit the ground, but in the scramble to grab it she crunched it in her fist. Crap.

With her attention torn away she hurried to regain her bearings on the room; she had become too invested in her find. Her coffee had been served, for one. Engie had left for the washroom and Pyro lazily gouged holes into the waffles he left behind. The mark was still yet to make an appearance.

So Miss Pauling sat straight - as if there were nothing of note under the table - and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't," he said, blasé. "You just happened to have chosen reading material written in German."

She cracked the book open again, this time properly looking at the text. So she had. Her German could be stronger, but she did know some. "I felt like reading it in its original language," she defended.

"Carmilla was written by an Irishman."

Shoot. 

Balled in her left hand, Miss Pauling unfurled the bookmark she had so savagely crumpled. It was easier than explaining herself to Spy. Though the bookmark never had much structural integrity to begin with - it looked little more than scrap paper - she couldn't help but feel sorry as she smoothed it out with the edge of her nails. Nevertheless, she took the time to roll her eyes over it. Makeshift bookmark for sure; this paper was a used sheet, she realised. Torn from its pad at the top. Edges of a pencil-written note peeked at her, and tilting it into the light, she focused her eyes to read - only to find she couldn't. The penmanship was respectable, not as neat as it was consistent (nothing like Medic's handwriting), but the words written weren't English. Not even the Latin alphabet, but Cyrillic. From what she recognised, it was in no doubt Russian. Which she knew Medic could not write.

Climax and anticlimax collided in her head with a limp smash. She had no doubt Spy was covertly examining the bookmark himself (nevermind watching her examine the bookmark) yet her skin crawled, and crawled, and crawled, until she finally relented and stuffed the bookmark in her waistband. Where it could be hidden. It likely didn't mean anything, really, what was written. She had already relegated it to scrap, after all! So why did it feel like she had a firecracker lit in her gut?

Spy, who had taken the silence between them as an opportunity to drag on his cigarette, leaned into her once again. "I should say, I didn't come over here only to confront you on your petty theft."

Her own breath had her hitched in her throat. A horrible block she tried hard to dissolve. "What do you want, Spy?"

His eyes were elsewhere. "I can't help but notice we seem to have been tailed here."

Great. Ice shot through her veins. "For how long?"

"On and off for about fifty miles," he said, focused on somewhere out the window. "A black Chevrolet. Which now sits in the second row of the parking lot."

"And you didn't think to mention this before?"

"It's a busy highway," he shrugged. "And you're a busy woman. I'm mentioning it to you now, am I not?"

Her own gaze steeled onto the inky abyss outside. "Stay here."

Oblivious to the drama at his table, Engineer pushed open the door to the men's restroom in the back of the diner to find a compact blue room made of concrete. Not even good concrete, either: the kind that chipped like meringue. The room's sole window barely clung to its frame. The whole place smelled overwhelmingly of industrial cleaner, yet, from the grime around the urinals alone, it sure didn't have anything to show for it. He had been in worse restrooms - RED bases had a penchant for wooden facilities - but this sure wasn't any place to call home about. Although, just like at home, Medic busied himself with something in a full sink at the far end of the room, smiling to himself.

"Whatcha got there, Doc?" An always dangerous question to ask.

At once a white little head popped above the surface of the water, those familiar beady eyes looking at Engineer with a curiosity. "Ah, Herr Engineer! Archimedes is having an impromptu birdbath," he elaborated. "He got into some rather unspeakable mischief earlier!"

"We've barely been outta the RV for twenty minutes. What on earth could he have gotten into already?"

Medic shrugged. "No idea!" He said with a dash too much delight. "But Sniper seemed rather intent on not letting him get clean in the RV sink. So here we are."

Not quite a day spa, Engineer frowned. "Looking at the state of these here sinks," he peeked over into the basin, "I wouldn't bet the lil' guy is gonna end up much cleaner than how he started. Heck, you may as well wash him in the toilet bowl."

"Ach, don't be so crude." Poking his feathered friend, "Archimedes would never stoop so low."

For a moment, Engineer wondered if only he remembered the time Archimedes spent a solid twenty-seven hours trapped inside Scout's chest cavity. Scout panicked like a five year old girl when he realised, but to this day he still claimed he jumped higher with the bird inside him. Gave him lift, he said. Like the Yank understood a lick of physics.

Engineer kicked open the first stall door, and was unimpressed - but not unsurprised - with what he found. Bubblegum in at least three colors had been smeared across the seat. Some of it still fresh. The overwhelming smell of tutti-frutti wouldn't be leaving his memory anytime soon. Although he hoped for the best the next stalls weren't any better: in one the seat had been shattered into little more than ceramic; in another some wicked substance coated the walls. Even the paper sanitary sheets to cover the seat with were infested with something. One by one, Engie kicked the doors in, becoming disillusioned with each prospective choice as he went along, all the while praying for the next one to be the saving grace. At this rate, hell, it was like they wanted him to shit in the urinal.

But on the final stall, when Engie kicked the door it bounced back. It barely opened an inch before slamming right shut again, the metal door rattling against the frame it sat in. The lock read VACANT, clear as day, but the damned door just wouldn't open.

Engineer threw his head over his shoulder. "You been in this one yet, Doc?"

He shook his head in return. "No. No one's come in or out while I've been here."

"Yeah, well, it's not locked. Something must be jamming it from the inside." He scratched the back of his head. "Give me a hand, would ya?"

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Medic made his way over to help Engie apply pressure to the door. If this didn't work Engie may as well take it right off its hinges. Give him five minutes with it and the door would work better than it ever had before. 

Yet, soon enough, that prospect slipped from Engineer's mind as slowly, slowly but surely, the obstruction behind the door began to give way. Until it finally caved open with a meaty slam.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there staring. Engineer's arm still holding the door open.

He tilted his head. "What on earth happened in here?"

"Nothing good, I'm sure." The white dove flapped over to roost on Medic's shoulder. "Yes, Archimedes," he hummed at the presence. "How very unexpected."