In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Fifty-Three: You're on Your Way to Brazil

        It's Tuesday night now, and we're all gathering at the fort again. Miss Pauling gave the guys an extra two days like the benevolent boss she is, but I think it's because her mother is slightly overbearing from what she's told me and forced her to stay home. Miss Pauling's the biggest workaholic I know, though, meaning that she probably worked during those days, too. And that's saying a lot since I know myself quite well. Everyone's gathered in the kitchen, Soldier the last one to take a seat. Scout looks up from his doodling in a notebook when I slide an envelope onto the table next to him. "Evening, gentlemen. It's payday."

"Aw, sick," Scout chatters as he uses his pencil like a letter opener to tear the flap open. "Why is it so late?"

"You didn't start working until the very end of September and you had to get paid for the cruise since it technically happened before the cut-off date," I explain, handing out payments to everyone else based on the names written on the back. "The soonest she could do was in the middle of October, and even that got backed up until now. Payout should be significantly inflated this time to make up for the department error. I don't know the full story, but--" I sigh as I hand off the last one to Engie. He smiles at me, and I smile back. His beard's kinda getting to me. He's a dirty blonde, and it looks good on him. "That's all boring corporate talk that I'm sure none of you care for."

"No, we do not," he responds.

"Uh, okay. December. Some things to go over." I stand in front of both of the tables, my back facing the armory as I talk to the guys. "We're going to have to increase the amount of time we spend training when we're at the fort in between jobs. You were out of commission for three months, and I can only assume what you were doing during that time."

"Seeking under the table work, Ma'am," Soldier pridefully announces, everyone groaning protests until he corrects himself. "I meant to say we were sitting on our asses, Ma'am."

"Good one, Soldier," Scout sneers from across the table as he rests his head in his hand.

"I could honestly care less about what you were doing during that time. It was before I came here, so I'm not eligible for punishment about it," I clarify. "But I still suggest you guys stay in shape whenever you have the time. May it be target practice or utilizing the gym, either one is good."

"Any reason in particular?" Spy asks, sitting in the giant office chair we have down here for some reason as he has a coffee mug in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

"To be blunt, Miss Pauling said you guys are kinda lazy," I paraphrase, omitting the fact that they'll be engaging in whatever the fuck happens when the ceasefire ends.

"Is she calling Heavy fat?" Heavy challenges and starts to get up while holding Confetti, Medic putting an arm in from of him to get him to sit back down in his chair.

"We already established you're merely big-boned, Bärchen. She just meant that we're not always doing something like she prefers us to," he explains. "I would say I'm in rather great shape."

"Medic, you started crying when you couldn't do more than seven pull-ups," Scout calls him out, Medic growling when everyone else laughs at his expense.

"Okay, guys, hey-" I snap my fingers, "let's stay on track and stop bullying Medic."

"I wasn't crying, Schweinehund, I was merely expressing my disdain for my lack of upper body strength," Medic responds, rushed and hushed as he sulks in his chair.

"I won't keep you for long, and I know a lot of you just got back from extraordinarily long flights and drives, so take the rest of the night for yourself and rest. I'll delegate jobs tomorrow. It's after the holidays, and people hate their relatives, so there's a lot to be done. And, also, before I forget, there's mail. Uh..." I trail off as I walk to the kitchen counter and rummage through my papers in my binder, looking at the labels. "Spy, it's from someone named Devon. Soldier, it's from a person named Randy, and Scout, it's from--" I lift an eyebrow as my eyes scan over Cashew's name again to make sure I'm reading it right. Cassius Esquivel. Scout yips and shoots out of his seat, reaching his lanky arm out and snatching it from me. "Oh, uh, okay. Alright. You guys are free to go."