In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Thirty: 'Til it Runneth Over

        A flight attendant checks over the aisles, and I remain silent with my eyes closed until she's gone. It's dark and quiet, cold worst of all. My eyes are dry and puffy. Maybe I should've asked the hostess for another napkin. I sniff, staving off from sobbing. I've sunk too low. It's all here. I can't take it anymore. I'm seriously at my limit. I have to get out.

Oh my god," Miss Pauling whispers as she stirs from her nap. "Are you crying?"

My ears haven't popped completely, so it's difficult to hear. "N-no."

"You better not be," she hisses, anger woven into her voice. "I don't understand why you're crying. You wanted the job, you got the job. You're going to get paid as a mercenary for what you did, which wasn't even much to begin with. Why are you even sad? Because you killed people?"

"Yeah," I admit, feeling out of breath. The hum of the plane makes me feel alone.

"Get a grip. That's what you're going to be doing for the rest of your life." She shifts in her seat. "You didn't want to talk to me about any of your problems when you came back home, so we're definitely not going to talk about it now. You'll just have to deal with that yourself. I'm a lesbian, Fredrickson, not a therapist. You got yourself into this shit, so you're going to see yourself out of it however you please."

I turn away from her as she settles back in. She's so mean, why is she so mean? I lean my head against the cold window, hoping the temperature change would do something for me, which it doesn't. I still feel horrible. Not a word was exchanged between us during the rest of the flight home. The entirety of the cabin was silent, not one person making a peep. I clean myself up as we deplane, looking presentable enough to where I just seem tired rather than an absolute disgrace to Miss Pauling. We pick up baggage and separate into our different vehicles in the garage. Sniper and Miss Pauling go in his van so he can drop her off back at our apartment. Heavy, Spy, Medic, Pyro, and Demo load into one of the company vans, Heavy choosing to drive as he's the biggest one there. Engie taps my arm, Scout behind him, and beckons me over to his truck. Miss Pauling eyes me before she slides into her seat. Engie takes my luggage from me and loads it into the back of his truck. I sit in between the two of them, Engie grunting as he scooches into place and flips his hardhat on.

"Being back in the usual digs feels much better," he comments. "Maybe we'll get ya some digs, too."

"Not opposed to seeing Accomplice in red," Scout says.

"Getting her in a uniform is not much of a priority, but it's something to think about."

We pull out of the garage, starting down the desert highway. Quiet and desolate. All there is to see in front of us is road and sand. The moon decided against showing herself tonight. Engie turns on the radio and taps his thumbs on the steering wheel as we ride in complete darkness. Scout settles in and shifts to the side, leaning his head on my shoulder to sleep. I'm isolated. I'm alone. My eyes warm and my vision blurs. How many have I killed now, two? Three people? Five if you count the other guy who looked like Bailey? George, the guy in the brig, and the two real Baileys. Four people in total that I dealt with myself.

The cracks start to form, and I sniffle a few times as I try to keep my nose from running. The corners of my eyes burn from the raw skin that has formed from all of the rubbing I've done. I blink and a few tears escape me, Engie turning on the lamp overhead for a brief moment to look at me. "Ope, cryin'. Why are we cryin'?"

"It's nothing, I'm fine," I feign, not doing a very convincing job to get him off of my back. Scout sits up, squinting to see me in the shadows.