Author's Note: Finally, we get around to the entire point of TF2: blowing things up and hoping not to get killed amidst all the chaos. But at this early point in the story, I haven't a whole lot of experience with writing battle scenes, or even playing the game, so the chapter's more based on introspective musings of a typical session for a beginning player. (Hopefully, non-players can understand it, even if just a little bit.)
A few minutes to noon, Mortimer finishes fulfilling Alan's favor and heads to the showers to wash up. Normally, he prefers to bathe alone, outside the realm of judgment from peering eyes, but for now, he'll have to make do with the public stalls. Thankfully for him, only one other person seems to be taking a shower this late in the day: Miller. The Engineer, stark naked, is pudgy, but still looks strong—just the way Mort likes them. But the Sniper is unable to enjoy the view for long, as Miller steps into the shower and pulls the curtain.
Curious about the inventor's showering habits, Mortimer keeps his senses sharp while cleaning himself. Miller's soft, lyrical voice tempts him into slumber, but every once in a while, it would be interrupted by an odd sound, as if a machine has gone haywire. Did something in his stall break? No, these things don't seem all that special—certainly not in a way that could have created such noise. He takes another peek at the stall across from him. Hanging on a bar between the two stalls are Miller's backup clothes and boots.
Hold on a minute. Where'd his glove go? Just as the thought came to mind, the stall across from him has gone silent. A gloved hand grabs hold of the curtain, and Mortimer rushes to close his own before he witnesses Miller in all his full-frontal glory. He listens closely to the shuffling sounds of the tubby man stepping out of the shower and donning his clothing. As the thump-thump-thump of the man's working boots gradually fade into nothingness, Mort begins to wonder about what secrets he might be hiding.
He's fifteen minutes late and holding a paper cup half-full of mocha latte, but he's finally arrived and ready to fight. According to one of the other men, the team is down one, and could use a Sniper to help balance out the field... or something like that. Mort can hear explosions and gunfire over in the distance. Far from ready for close combat, he immediately searches for a spot from which he can observe safely. He eventually finds a path leading to the lovely view that Miller showed him and Spy earlier that day, and starts prepping his sniper rifle.
The chaos of the battlefield is overwhelming, but watching it all through the narrow vision of the sniper scope makes it just a touch more comforting. Just shoot the red guys, and it'll all be over in no time. He repeats this mantra in his mind as he aims and fires at his target. He didn't come into this job with high expectations of himself—as long as he shoots somebody, he's good to go—but the more he notices his performance, the more his confidence begins to wane. Whenever he asked for a headshot, the less likely he got one. Likewise, shots straight through the head came when he least expected it. If only those happened more consistently.
As the last few minutes tick away, something unexpected happens. Just when Mort thinks it was safe to pull the trigger, a sharp pain strikes into his spine and chest. He can feel his heartbeats slowing down as the blood that pulsed through his veins begin to bleed out from his back. As he collapses to the ground, the last thing he sees before he blacks out is a devious grin, belonging to a red-suited Spy.
Blackness. Nothingness. Is that all there is when you die? No, it can't be...! I see... I see a light. It's tiny, but it's there. Perhaps if I reach towards it... I can be saved.
Mort's eyelids flicker, the bright light blinding him as he awakens. As his eyes adjust to the lighting, he can see a large figure looming over him.
“Guten Morgen, Morty,” the figure says cheerfully as a giant hand helps him up. “You voke up just in time.”
Mortimer's brows contorted in confusion. “In time for what?”
“You vere out for quite a vhile, ja? Zhe next round is about to start!”
Suddenly having flashbacks of the last few moments before he woke up, he shook his head. “No! I ain't goin' out there, no way in hell!”
Hartmann seems unaware—or indifferent—to the bushman's protests. “I take it you're not used to zhe Respawn System yet. Don't vorry: everyone gets scared zhe first time zhey die.”
The first time they die? “You mean that's gonna happen again? As in, multiple times? I don't think I can handle this. I wanna go home!”
“No vay, José. Zhe sooner you get used to it, zhe better. Vhy, vhen Kaninchen first came here, I made him take every available shift. He died ein hundert sieben und vierzig times zhat veek, but I zhink he's learned since zhen.”
“Ein hundert...? You mean he's died over a hundred times?”
“One hundred und forty-seven times, to be exact. To be frank, I think he did quite vell for his first time.” The Medic sounded a little too jolly when he said that.
“But that's impossible! I can understand coming back from the dead one time, but one hundred and forty-seven times...?” Did I land in purgatory or something? 'Cause it sounds an awful lot more like Hell.
“Zhat is zhe result of zhe Respawn System. Nobody really knows how it vorks, but zhe instant your personal information is entered into zhe database, you are eligible to be revived und transported back to zhe base vhen you die in battle. Zhe only catch is zhat it only vorks within a certain range, und zhe time it takes for zhe process to take place varies dependin on zhe situation. On average, zhough, it takes about twenty to thirty seconds.”
Mortimer is awestruck by this new information. To think, he had only been dead for less than a minute before being transported here. Though he's terrified of the pain he'll feel in the long run, he's also relieved to know that he is not in any real danger—not yet, anyway. “Knowin' this definitely takes a huge burden offa my shoulders. Thanks, Doc.”
“Bitte sehr. I should know about zhis—I died over ein tausend times!”
“You really haven't learned, have you?”
“Eh, in my line of vork, it's pretty much inevitable,” he replies with a bitterness in his tone. “So tell me, vhat happened out zhere?”
“You mean, how I died?” Even after hearing and saying it so many times, he still cannot get over how casually they speak of death. “Well, I was up on the roost, tryin' to aim at a Soldier or two, but just as I was about to pull the trigger, I felt this sharp pain on my back. Last thing I saw was this guy in a red suit.”
“Ah, der Spion. Zhey alvays go after Snipers like you. Masters of stealth, zhey are.” The doctor is smiling, but the bushman can hear the bitterness welling up again. “I don't know vhere your smart-mouthed little friend is, but zhere vill come a time vhen he vill have to do zhe same to zhe enemy.”
Realizing who Hartmann is talking about, Mortimer's heart drops. “You mean... Spy's gonna have to... kill somebody?”
He adjusts his glasses and says, “Ja. Have you not been doing zhe same before now?” Mort says nothing, unable to form a proper answer. A mischievous smirk on his face, Hartmann quips, “You're an odd one, Morty. But I like odd.” He pats him on the back (a little too hard, though) and shoves him in the direction of the door. “Now, off you go!”
Mort rubs his aching back, but heads for the door, anyway. But before he can leave, there's one question that keeps nagging away at Mort's brain. “Hey, Doc. What does 'Kaninchen' mean, anyway?”
The doctor, taken aback by the sudden inquisition, hesitates before answering. “It means 'rabbit' in my native tongue. Vhy'd you ask?”
“Er, no reason. Just curious.” And off he goes.
Muttering “vierdo” under his breath, Hartmann returns to the task at hand: tending to his precious “rabbit”.
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