In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Fifty-Four: Reliving What Could've Been

 [Art for Pilot and his character belongs to my friend @/islandercrows on Instagram!! I digitized and colored him. Please go give them a follow!}

"Oh my God," I pant, "how are we not dead?"

"Team Fortress staple," Medic calmly says. "Now isn't that the million Deutsche Mark question?" I turn my head to him. I've heard him say that before.

Scout runs to us, frantic. "Guys, c'mon c'mon c'mon, you've gotta come with me, let's go, move it!" He insists. "We're loading into the vans right fucking now, we can't keep this up."

"Engineer has been taken!" Heavy yells to be heard over his barrage. I face him, seeing a field of fire as he mows down BLUs. No. God, no.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck--" Scout bites on his knuckles. "Uhh, uhm, alright, uh-- Shit, I can't think."

I rush over to help Demo stand upright as he almost falls over, injured far more than what I remember him to be. This... This can't be happening. My hands are wet. He's bleeding, but I don't know where. I can't help him. He mutters nonsense as his head hangs. I pat his cheek a few times. "Demo? Hey, Demo." I know what happens. I know how this goes. "Medic, Scout, you take Demo with you and get to the vans. Spy! Where's Spy?"

"Right here. We have--" He appears behind me, intelligence in hand.

"We have two vans. Leave. Go, now!" I hand Demo off to Soldier and Scout. "No arguing, this is a direct order. Medic, I know you're going to want to help, but you're our most valuable team member, you have to stay safe. Heavy, Pyro, Sniper, let's go." I get looks from around the semi-circle. This was the first time I actually said anything that mattered to them. The first time I stuck my neck out and decided for the team. "Guys, go. And no funny business. D-Do-- Don't get any ideas and try to come back to help. I'm serious. C'mon, let's move."

"Take good care of Sasha," Heavy confides in Medic to watch over his mini-gun.

Pyro leads and continues to extinguish flames, Heavy taking it upon himself to brute force as many people as possible along with Scout, armed with a bat. I spot Engie's shotgun and load it up, keeping it for myself this time. I lift the gun to shoot a soldier who's aiming at me. I exhale and blink to gain my composure, staring at George when I open them again.

Scout trains his new handgun on George and Pyro his flamethrower. No. It happened again. They didn't listen. Scout, go. Leave. Please. I rest my cheek on the stock and keep my focal point on George's head the best I can, despite the mounting anxiety in my stomach. Engie moves slowly with hesitation, blood spurting out onto the couch each time he moves something. He sticks a prod into a muscle. "You don't want me to do this sir, I've told you time and time again."

"Turn it on, you hick, I've got somewhere to be." George cocks his gun this time. Stop it. Engie, please.

Engie hesitates, sighing. "You've done did this to yourself."

"No!" I yell, pulling the trigger to stop it, but it's all over in a blink of an eye. Engie lays there, a rosebud of death blossoming on his forehead as he lays next to George with a decimated face. I drop the shotgun. I'm paralyzed. I can't move. I did this. It's my fault. It really was my fault. Them getting shot, Scout almost dying from getting shot in the chest. It's all me. It's all my fault. Engie's death is on my hands. I did this to him. I killed Engie.

"Miss Fredrickson..." Heavy heaves. George stands in front of him with his hand in Heavy's stomach. I can't do anything but stare.

"Tick Tock, Miss Fredrickson. I'm waiting for you," George taunts before reaching up and ripping Heavy's enormous heart out. "I'll see you in Brazil."