In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Twenty-One: I Fucking Hate Florida

        "That's why I told you to wear something comfortable," Miss Pauling sings under her breath, sitting on her suitcase as we wait for our luggage on the carousel.

Spy moves his leg in small, erratic bursts to get it to wake up. He stands near the conveyor belt with his jacket draped over his arm and ski mask in hand, dressed in a suit as opposed to everyone else wearing more loose-fitting clothing that's appropriate for the weather... Save Pyro. I still can't believe they let him on the plane in his suit, much less past security. Then again, Miss Pauling flashed her TF Industries ID, and all of our more than questionable items went through unquestioned.

I had to switch to a purse, and I'm somewhat okay with that. It fits the 'tourist group on vacation' look we're going for as a collective, what with Miss Pauling and I wearing sundresses and sandals and a lot of the guys wearing Hawaiian or polo styled shirts with one pattern or another. Miss Pauling and I made the call of going by our real names to blend in aboard the ship, and we're going to try and enforce it whenever we're in public in case of wandering ears since apparently normal passerby know about classed mercenaries wherever they have a strong presence. It's especially bad here in Fort Lauderdale since one of the tourist attractions here is a museum of the many ways mercenaries have been hunted and killed here. Many of the team have already expressed that I don't need to be so formal with them, Engie being one of the more adamant ones about it, but Miss Pauling insisted that the team continue calling me "Miss Fredrickson."

"Cars are outside, Eng- ow!" Scout- clad in jeans and a hoodie- and Pyro approach us, Pyro elbowing Scout. "Dell and Mick are driving."

"You go ahead and get one of the cars to the hotel, Fredrickson, we'll be behind you guys," Miss Pauling shoos me away.

I pull my suitcase behind me. Pyro leads me through the checkpoint and to the elevator, bringing us down to the garage level. The guys stand around with their bags, not in the cars. "Why are we not loaded up?"

"The inability to make choices," Engie says, tipping his cowboy hat as he leans against the side of the SUV in jeans, a red flannel, and cowboy boots.

"Okay then. Uh, with me and Dell, we're going to have: Mr. DeGro--"

"Tavish, lass," Demo corrects.

"Right, sorry. Tavish, Dr. Humboldt, Pyro... and Jeremy." I look around. "Where's Jeremy?"

"Lad's probably goin' to try and stay with Miss Pauling," Demo says, picking up his duffel bag and suitcase in his sandals, orange polo shirt and cargo shorts.

"Has always had a weird obsession with her, rather creepy." Medic pops the trunk and handles organizing our gear, wearing a white shirt under his open red cross cover, also in cargo shorts and sandals.

"Which is why I reiterate why they won't get together," Engie puts. He opens the passenger door and flicks his hand, letting me know he wants me in the car.

"You should take off your goggles Dell, you're going to scare children," I suggest.

"Had a young'un tell me I look like a cyborg once and he said he liked cyborgs to be completely truthful, so I don't think I will," he mentions. "Now get in the car."

"I think he called you a cyborg for another reason, but the goggles only added to his imagination." Medic points to his own hand, and I look down at Engie's. He also looks down at his yellow and grey glove, closing his fingers into a fist. "Engineer, please do tell me you brought your... You know..."

"What is he talking about?" I ask, climbing in.

"My guitar case, which I did," Engie states with a tone that suggests he's keeping a secret. "And that's Dell to you, mister."