In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Eighty: Mother

        Finding the ground comfortable is when someone should start worrying about their mortality. I sit on the moldy and decrepit floor of the basement dungeon cell with one hand handcuffed to a water pipe and the other pressing on my stab wounds. It hurts, and I know I'm not pressing as hard as I can because of it.

BLU Scout sits outside the bars on a folding chair, head hanging off the back with his legs extended fully out to where the back of his shoes touch the ground. He throws his baseball up toward the ceiling and catches it before it hits his face. Over and over again. The sound of the ball hitting his palm is annoying. I exert to throw my head over to the side to look at him. "Hey."

He catches the ball and freezes in his position. "What."

"Where's Neuro?"

"Doc has her," he answers shortly.

"What are you doing to her?"

He's already agitated by our conversation. Probably because he wasn't expecting to have one with me of all people. "You should know."

I carry my eyes to the rusted bars that keep me further caged in. "It's different every time, isn't it?"

"Just for you. It's only different for you." He sighs. "But to shut you up, she's getting patched up."

"And me?" I hoarsely question. "Am I just going to die down here?"

He lifts his head, resentment invading the basement. "Yes. Hopefully, it'll teach you to be a team player. That's time and money and resources you're wasting every time we have to go and look for you, you know that, huh? You are your selfish wants..."

So she's an escape artist. She might not be as into this as the others. Defective, maybe? She's be preprogrammed with loyalty unless someone or something changed her mind. The handcuffs rattle. My arm's been shaking. It's fallen asleep, my hand numb from the lack of circulation, and my arm tingly from being lifted so long. My skin is bloated and blue. Attempting to articulate diverts pain away from my abdomen if only a little.

The basement door creaks open and then slams shut. Two sets of footsteps, one more skittery than the other. I smile when I see that it's Sniper. He's being wrangled by the BLU equivalent of Pyro. The scout rises and twirls the key ring around his finger before opening my cell. He steps in by himself and doesn't move until the gate is completely closed. I lift my hand from my wound to wave. "Yo."

"Crickey," he huffs under his breath and makes his way over to me, lifting my shirt to assess the situation. "Bloody hell happened to you?"

I groan as I try to reposition myself so I'm not hanging by the cuffs and to bend my arm. "An Australian man with a very, very large knife," I muster, wincing. He wraps my other arm over his back and then lift my body to lean me up against the wall. "Not- Not you, though."

"I know, not me, Luv," he quietly draws. His hand touches my forehead. "You're red hot." I smile, woozy.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"You're running a fever," he corrects. "When did this happen?"

When did we get here? Nine... Ten in the morning? I shrug. "What time is it?" He glances at his watch.

"Half-past five."

"At least eight hours ago?"

He shakes his head. "It's been a day since we last saw each other."