Chapter Text
As a spy, one had affairs, or trysts, or even romances, but one did not have relationships. It unfortunately did not line up well with the nature of the profession. Even if one did manage to cultivate such a close, intimate tie with another human being, there was the issue of practicality. A certain level of reticence was required, lest one become too familiar, and therefore run the risk of having that familiarity be used against them. Thusly, the most effective spies were those who had no such ties. No family. No friends. No familiarities, or problematic strung-up heartstrings to tug at.
As such, spies were encouraged not to make relationships. Networking, on the other hand, was a frequently dealt with necessity, so long as it didn't lead to anything that couldn't be called vague detachment. Collaborating with others was a must, a means to an end. Nothing more.
No family. No friends. No strings attached.
These are the tenements: To be a spy.
To be a spy, once must sacrifice; Sacrifice all that they were, are, and will be.
He was no exception.
Spy had and would sacrifice plenty.
Despite being one of the best professionals of his caliber, it had been a long time since Spy last had work. While the working theory might have said that Intelligence seeking Individuals were always needed, Spy had long since learned that was not always the case. There were lulls, an ebb and flow, and often he went through intermittent droughts where there was nothing for him to covertly snatch or infiltrate (whether that be museums, or enemy threats to the peace, or that insufferable cult, that one time.) There was also the slight… complication that arose when it came time to search for such work.
The searching was nigh impossible. People did not post Spying jobs in the newspaper, after all, seeing as that would defeat more than half of the purpose.
People didn't post ads in the paper asking for a skilled, dashing Rogue with a knack for Subterfuge, (that being a role one was specifically called on for, or stumbled into) so Spy was more than just shocked when he flipped the paper open and saw exactly that.
It was an ad from some small, independent contractor. The phrasing was questionable, and the pay, presented in big, big text at the bottom, seemed too good to be true. It was also an ad in the newspaper they hadn't even bothered to put in its proper place amongst the classifieds, instead jammed between an advertisement for a surely defunct youth serum and cheap x-ray goggles a child could have found in their cereal box.
Despite his misgivings about the advert’s authenticity, Spy still called the number inked in bold at the bottom of the page. The dial tone rang twice, and then the voice of a young woman made its way through Spy’s phone receiver, sounding shocked, and then harried. She said something about the phone lines just being reinstalled after an incident with some horrid beast, no, an infestation? Of raccoons, she’d said? Then she mentioned the blood on her hands, and how it was sure to stain the plastic of the landline, and then she went on about how she hoped it wouldn’t slip out of her hands and onto the floor, but at that point Spy had stopped listening entirely. He was about to hang up, preferably right after giving a sly and smooth excuse such as “Sorry mademoiselle, wrong number” but just as he was preparing to hook the receiver back to the wall he heard her mention a listing. A job. Surely that was what he’d called to discuss, yes?
Spy quickly agreed. He would like to hear about this job she spoke of.
He was in need of work, after all.
(He really had no idea what he was getting himself into, or else he likely would have never said yes.)
But he would. Say yes.
~
“What exactly does this job entail, Mademoiselle?”
The woman was a terribly nervous thing, Spy had noticed, tending to pick at her hands as she spoke. Within about ten minutes Spy could tell there was something she was keeping from him, and had spent the last few exchanges trying to subtly pry the truth from her. Unfortunately, she seemed especially perceptive, dodging every line of questioning.
“Huh, so um, as I was saying, you're going to be working with a team of other “professionals,” who will uh…” She paused, clicking her tongue, and then said, “You will be working together, as a unit, protecting the varied interests of Redmond Mann.”
“Working with who? And I am no personal bodyguard, Miss–?”
“Pauling,” She said, with a cracked half smile and awkward near reluctance.
Spy nodded once. “Pauling.”
“Right, so, that shouldn’t be a problem. You definitely won’t be bodyguarding anyone,” She laughed.
“As you very well know, protecting is not a part of my skill set.”
“Haha. Right. Uh… hm. How do I go about saying this?” Miss Pauling hummed in thought, clearly pondering over her phrasing, perhaps to soften the impact of whatever she was about to tell Spy. Then she said, simply, “Yeah, you’re going to be killing people.”
“What?”
“Did I not say that already? Was it not in the listing?”
Spy glared at Miss Pauling, his eyes narrowed very harshly. “Non.”
Miss Pauling reached her hand up, pinching the bridge of her nose in a very clear show of stress. “I told Hale...” She took in a deep breath, counted faintly under her breath, and then smiled at Spy. “Sorry, that was a logistical oversight, won’t happen again.”
“I am more concerned about the killing mentioned.”
“Basically, we need you to very covertly assist us in stealing some sensitive information. Um, there will be a lot of gun fire, and you might have to, I dunno, stab some guys along the way to do it. We do pay well. Um.” Miss Pauling shook her head, “Sorry, this is just taking some getting used to I guess… All the questions.” She laughed awkwardly, then cleared her throat, “I just had a guy in here about a week ago, and as soon as I said he’d get to shoot people, well, let's just say that made his whole afternoon. In fact, you're the first one who didn’t immediately jump at signing the contract once I mentioned that… y’know… killing people.”
“You are saying I will be working with a slew of bloodthirsty, insane buffoons.”
Miss Pauling laughed again. Spy wondered briefly if she was always like this.
She shook her head, immediately sobering. “Yeah, that does sound about right.” She reached out a hand, contract and pen both extended to Spy, “Ready to sign?”
Spy hesitated, but he didn’t say no, either.
He thought back, instead, to his lonely little Parisian townhouse, which he'd traded in for a flat in London, and then again for a tiny apartment in the heart of New York, which he was at this point three months behind on the rent for.
With a great big sigh, he took the offered pen.
“Who are you?” Spy asked, no small amount of disdain in his tone.
The man genuinely reminded Spy of a hobo– a relatively clean hobo, but a hobo nonetheless. He wore a simple red t-shirt with a plain brown vest that might or might not have been actual leather ripped off a beast's back the week before, with how rugged it was. His dark pants weren’t in much better condition, likely hiding a plethora of muddy stains, and worn enough to have intermittent gray spots where the fabric had lost most of its color.
He could almost be called clean shaven, besides the spotty stubble on his chin.
Spy disliked him on sight.
“I’m about to be yer best mate. Unless ya like walking.” The fellow looked down at Spy’s leatherbound, very expensive dress shoes, before looking up with an immediate and incredibly smug smirk. “Judging by them pretty shoes of yers, I’m gonna bet not.”
“I was told to wait here by Miss Pauling.”
“That’ll be her, yeah. The Miss. She was also the one to tell me to come and getcha.” He pointed at the utter monstrosity of a vehicle sitting behind him. “You can get in the back.”
“I refuse to ride anywhere in that.”
“Suit yourself.” He pushed off from where he was leaning against the side of the camper, turning back and stepping toward the side door. As he opened it he shouted into the back, “Alright, blokes, Wheels up in two!” and slammed the passenger side shut. Then he got in the driver’s seat and started up the engines.
Spy grumbled to himself, but only hesitated a moment before stepping forward. There was no chance he was walking several miles in his nicest pair of leather shoes, so it appeared as though he’d be forced to bite the metaphorical bullet. Ah well. Standards could wait until after he was safely on base, he supposed.
~
Spy was squeezed between two, distinctly oversized men. One was ridiculously large even compared to the other, with shoulders wide enough for a bear, and such massive hands Spy’s entire head probably could fit into one of his palms with ease. The other was a little shorter, stocky, and he wore a steel helmet. He also wouldn’t shut up .
Spy did his best to ignore both of them, to little avail.
The larger of the two has a thick Russian accent and speaks with the cadence of a caveman, or, perhaps, a neanderthal. “Will stupid American be quiet?!”
“Only as soon as you start speaking English!” The obvious idiot wearing the helmet countered.
“Heavy speaks English.”
“I meant American. Speak American.”
Sniper started to slap his hand against the sheet metal divider partially obstructing the path between the cab and the back where the three men sat. “Hey, no fighting back there!"
"He started it–!"
"No, Soldier man lies–!"
"Don't matter! Just know I don't want no blood in my camper! No loose teeth neither, alright?! Keep yer hands to yourselves."
Both men grumble quietly, shifting shoulders and knocking knees as they shuffled to try and get as far away from each other as possible. The man who Spy was pretty sure kept referring to himself in the third person as Heavy turned and hunkered his shoulders down even further with clear dissatisfaction, while ‘Soldier man’ crossed his arms and continued to not make eye contact through the stupid metal helmet obscuring his vision.
“Sorry about those two,” The driver, Sniper, said once he’d parked his camper on the grounds of the base Spy would now apparently be working from. “They took about two looks at each other a few weeks back, and been at each other’s throats ever since. Practically hated each other on sight.”
Spy tilted his head. “The smaller one can see? I had presumed he was blind on top of his unfortunate tendency toward stupidity.”
"Yer cynical, eh, mate." Sniper offered a lopsided smile he probably thought was charming. "I like that in a man."
Spy sneered at Sniper. “I hardly care what you like, Monsieur.”
“Monnie-what-now?”
Spy’s glare deepened. “Nothing,” Spy said, sharp, clipped, then muttered under his breath, “Imbécile.”
The base is horrible and each and every one of Spy’s teammates are stupid. He can’t really stand most of them longer than incredibly short, intermittent bursts. Soldier is so foolish he makes bags of rocks look ingenious. Heavy seems to only be interested in talking about the fire rate of his mini-machine gun. Demoman is so often inebriated enough for three men that Spy can’t seem to hold a decent length conversation with him without him passing out, or saying something ridiculous, or just being plainly irritating to listen to.
Pyro is clinically insane, Spy’s convinced.
That left Engineer, and Sniper. Tolerable, Spy thought, but only tolerable.
Then there was the boy.
Bon dieu.
~~○~~
The boy is scrawny and young, and hopeless, and maybe Spy would have loved him if he'd ever met him. But Spy hadn't. Not since he was tiny enough to swaddle and hold.
The boy is now a man, and he glared at Spy as he entered the squad room for the first time. He scowled and glared, pulling on his ratty leather gloves, and Spy doesn't even notice that he notices him. He hardly spared the young man a glance.
Spy was listening to Pyro mumble unintelligibly to his left, while trying to tune out Soldier to his right. Meanwhile, Engineer was going over battle plans and formations no one was listening to, standing next to a scribbled over blackboard with a piece of chalk in his hand.
“You see that guy over there?” The boy, Scout, muttered.
Heavy remained steadily looking at no one, arms crossed. “No.”
Scout scoffed, glaring so hard at Spy he seemed to have the intention to melt a hole through his head. “You got eyes in that big ol’ skull a’ yers, don’t ya?” Scout groused at Heavy, who hardly reacted. “You ain't even lookin’.”
Spy scowled, doing his best to tune out all of the voices swirling around him– especially that of the Scout, whom he found particularly obnoxious. He removed his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then took out his lighter and ignited it with practiced ease. The lighter was stowed back in his suit pocket immediately after, and he took in a deep breath before heaving a slow, smoky exhale.
“Hey, you’ve got good taste,” None other than the smelly bushman, Sniper, walked over, inclining his head with a charming sort of chuckle before squeezing his way onto the bench seat Spy was seated on. Pyro was forced to scooch over to give him space, but Spy assumed they didn’t mind based on the lack of complaint. Then again, it was incredibly difficult to tell just what went through that gas mask covered head of theirs, and Spy was none too keen to find out.
“What?” Spy said, brow raised.
Sniper pointed simply at the pack of cigarettes. “Expensive stuff ya got there.” He held his hand out, “Wanna share?”
“Non,” Spy replied immediately, then looked away.
Sniper's grin only widened, and Spy was so, so very tempted to tell him just what a fool he was.
"Hm. 'Kay. How about this? We make a bet– we see who kills the most BLU blokes, and whoever wins gets these good ol' ciggies."
Spy scowled, which only deepened when he caught Sniper trying to reach into his breast pocket. "You sound like a child," He said, tone hissy and quite frankly peeved. "Ciggies? How old are you again?"
"Oh, y'know… edging real close to 'nunya'."
"What?"
"Nunya business, mate!" Sniper started to laugh, "Haha!"
"You really are a child."
"Pfft."
Spy was about to say something rather toxic to Sniper when a loud, nearly eardrum-shattering alarm started to blare throughout the tiny room. It startled Spy badly enough that he nearly fell out of his seat, heart pounding in his chest. His other seven compatriots hardly responded, besides what sounded like a muffled cry of joy from Pyro and a war bellow from the Soldier.
As if spurred on by a call to immediate violence, Soldier jumped up, saluted no one in particular very sharply, then screamed, "Get a move on, maggots, so that we may lead our army to swift and decisive victory. Hoo-ah!" Before slinging a massive rocket launcher over his overly musculatured, very stupid shoulders.
What?
Spy stared in disbelief, and that was, of course, when the real commotion broke out.
Soldier charged out of the squadroom, screaming at the top of his lungs "Right, Left, Right–!" all the while.
Demoman was next, in step with his comrade as if his insane, preposterous machinations made sense, and could even be replicated. The others are slower, collecting equipment– shotguns, axes, rifles specifically designed to blow the back of a poor fool's head clean off (just like the one Sniper slings across his shoulders onto his back, right now.)
Spy, armed with only his knife, feels ill-prepared. Out of place. He felt like he'd stepped straight into an active war zone after being told he only needed to protect himself 'if the circumstances arose.' It was clear his comrades had been given a different directive, and considering how armed to the teeth they were, it was hardly a subtle one.
Kill. Kill or be killed.
Spy swallowed back his fear.
He blinked heavily, finally noticed the hand extended in his direction. Sniper takes hold of his hand with a firm grip, once Spy reaches up to meet him, then tugs him up out of his chair with a quick and sharp motion. Spy's shoulder knocks against Sniper's, then Sniper gives him one heavy clap on the back before stepping away. Spy took note of the dark, almost purpling bruise beneath Sniper's left thumbnail he had not noticed before, and then that was that. Then it's Sniper waving and wishing Spy luck, fucking winking like he knows Spy is about to die, and then a fuzzy feeling unfurls in Spy's stomach that tastes like bitter fear and sweltering queasy anger and something else.
The Scout is the last to go, glaring at Spy as he passes.
Eventually, Spy follows, head held high despite the way his fists clench at his sides.
~~○~~
The field was pure chaos in ways Spy could never have predicted.
He is looking at a nightmare. Mon dieu!
Everywhere he turned, it seemed, there was being wrought another path of destruction. Off in the distance he sees two men in blue, burning alive, swaths of flame following as they flee. Even further away, too far to see, he hears machine gun fire and screams. There are bullets whizzing past in every direction plausible. Somewhere, he heard explosives and long suffering wails, followed by laughter and Scottish shouting.
The logical thing would be to turn tail and run as far from this insanity as he could muster, contract or no. Surely no amount of pay could be worth this. Surely a man with more sense, more self preservation could see what was too impossible a task and quit while he was already far, far behind.
Spy is not that man. Spy is stubborn, but most importantly Spy was prideful and he was not going to admit defeat that easily. He would, genuinely, if he was reflecting honestly, rather die.
Except he would not. Die. Absolutely not.
He was going to win whatever this sick game was.
Miss Pauling had already laid out the rules for him. Infiltrate the Blue team's base, steal their intel, get back out unharmed. Spy has had plenty of contracts with precisely the same parameters.
He had not had… rockets flying overhead, but no matter. He would succeed, regardless.
He fails.
He was sneaking through an open hangar bay, with towers overlooking each of four corners, when he heard shouting behind him. They weren't very close, but he could see them in their blue uniforms sprinting his way, and he knew they were saying something about the color red.
Bullets are whizzing past his ears. Spy ducked, then bolted for the first piece of cover he could find, that being an old keg far worse for wear.
Crack, crack, thunk, he hears, as the bullets make their riddled impacts upon the barrel. Several leaks spring, gushing and pouring out old beer that leave his clothes saturated. He's already following his instincts, fight instead of flight, jumping to his feet and brandishing his butterfly knife all in one smooth but harried motion, when a hand flew out toward him– someone is yanking him up by a fistful of his suit lapels, and then he's face to face with a bucket-helmeted brute who looks, quite suspiciously, just like his dumb as bricks teammate Soldier, the only discernible difference being the blue uniform this one wore.
Spy reached up, prying at the brute's hands to no avail. He was, after all, most skilled at subterfuge. All out war was currently not in his repertoire.
(Despite that small oversight, Spy was no quitter.)
"Let me go, you fool, before I am forced to filet you from head to your miserable toe."
"What's that ye got there, Sollyboy?" Yet another idiot, who looked just like Demoman, walked into view. "I ain't seen this one before! Those Red eejits must be diversi…" His eyebrows crinkled as he stumbled over the word in his thick Scottish accent, before he eventually huffed loudly and said, "Och, aye, forget it! He gets mae point."
"Why can't I see his face?!" The Soldier shouted, staring with vast, thick-skulled annoyance at Spy's mask.
The BLU Demoman shrugged. "Dunno. Must be a…" He tilted his head. "Aye, he's a ninja!"
"A ninja?! I have never heard of anything less American!!"
"Hehehh! So we agree, donnae we? We should kill this bloke?"
"Yes!"
The BLU Soldier lifted Spy higher to his left, and the Demoman pointed his gun straight at his forehead. Spy, scowling, refused to look away. He refused to close his eyes. He locked gazes with the man, because if he was going to kill him now, he was going to have to look at him while he did it. It truthfully did nothing for Spy in the long run, seeing as he was about to be dead in under a minute, but he also refused to let this man take something so valuable from him without exacting his equivalent penance.
The Demoman doesn't hesitate. But he also doesn't shoot. His own head is blowing apart into a thousand, bloody little spattered chunks before he ever gets the chance. Some lands on Spy's cheek, and on his suit.
The Soldier howled, not in fear, but instead in anger. He's swinging Spy around, moments from launching his own assault, when another shot rings out, this one considerably quieter– further away.
Spy stumbles as he escapes the dead Soldier's grip, watches as the man falls to the ground like a dead mule. Finally, his gaze tracks toward the direction of the second shot, and he sees movement in one of the towers. A glimpse of red, and a long rifle being picked up from where it was slotted between a view window and otherwise solid stone. Then, he heard footsteps behind him, turned, and saw the boy, the Scout, shotgun held loosely in one hand, that same scowling glare he's been directing Spy's way since they've met plastered all over his face. He doesn't speak at all, a rarity for him, and instead simply walks away.
Spy is left, standing in the middle of the hangerbay, heart thudding in his chest.
~
Spy was seated in the corner of the kitchen, nursing his ego, when Sniper walked up to him. He's grinning at Spy.
He extends his hand out, and Spy simply raises a brow in response.
"I'll take my winnings now, mate."
Spy scoffs, but he fishes the cigarettes out of his suit pocket all the same. A deal was a deal, after all.
"Here, you miscreant."
"Haha! Well, as our dearest bloke Engie would say, Thank ya! Thank ya, thank ya real kindly like, sir!"
"There is… no way he speaks in zat manner."
"Trust me, I wish I could make this up. Nope, that fits Engie to a tee. Strewth!"
"Was that a word of some kind?"
"Anything can be if ya try hard enough. You already know language is just a load of made up shite anyway."
"You are saying this just to annoy me." It wasn't a question.
Sniper cracked a lopsided grin. "Maybe."
A pause, silence. It isn't nice, but Spy wouldn't call it terrible. Tolerable, he'd say.
"Hey, just be happy you aren't those blokes." Sniper pointed at the team, collected together at the table, surrounded by beer bottles and scrumpy and other such indulgences. Soldier and Demoman especially looked hagrid, and they were tucked into their particular makeshift anesthetics.
Sniper guffawed at the sight, obtaining one of Spy's cigarettes from their pretty, laminated pack and lighting it with a match pulled from his pocket. Hands cupped around the light, sort of collecting the smoke, before the heat licked just a little too close to his hands and he tore them back, laughed again, and said, "Mhm. Legs broke, Arms blown clean off, and nobody to fix it. Bloody sad."
"Yes… Between you and that frowning boy, I am sure I have nothing to fear."
"Hahah. Gotta love Scout. Funniest guy around."
Spy turned, feeling as though there were eyes booring into the back of his head. And yet… he saw nothing. Simply a collection of foolish men, unconcerned by the constant, encroaching possibility of death.
He turned back, sighing.
"This is by far the worst job I have ever taken."
Sniper laughed at that, "You and me both, mate!" He exclaimed, just overcome with disgustingly loud laughter. Then he paused. Looked at Spy. Really looked at him, quiet and thoughtful, just for a moment.
And then he offered him a cigarette.