~ARTISTS COMMENTS~

I've read a good few origin stories for TF2 on how the Team was recruited/commissioned/etc... But I haven't found too many origin stories that try to explain the mysteries behind how the mercenaries came to be who they are. These little gems, I think, are the most interesting things about them. So, I decided to start my own little Origin series.

I've played as Heavy plenty of times. I've watched his video. I've heard his taunts. He seems to be extraordinarily affectionate towards his minigun; his Sasha. Too, he has a second minigun, named Natascha, whom he is equally affectionate towards. But one must wonder, why those names? Sure, they could have just been random choices, but what if they weren't? Who are Sasha and Natascha?

This is a teaser trailer for what is to come. A Prologue that isn't really a Prologue that really is a Prologue. Stay with me here, folks.

This one's likely not going to be nearly as long as Rainbows. Mostly because it's two tales smashed into one. So as a whole, it might come close, but the individual tales... aw, who gives a shit? I enjoyed writing it; I hope you enjoy reading it.

EDIT: I done goofed. Medic has doves, not pigeons. Silly ol' me.

Devushka Sasha and Leibe Natascha

The Team hated losing, there were no doubts about that. Losing meant smaller checks in the mail, sometimes a painful night's sleep in the Infirmary, and a heavy blow to the Team's pride.

Had it been a swift, steam-roller loss, that would've been one thing. It would've just meant that the Team started on the wrong foot. Maybe their breakfast had been undercooked and everyone had felt a bit sick. Maybe they'd stayed up a bit too late playing poker the night before. Or, maybe they were just off their game. Regardless, the fight would be over quickly, and they could put it all behind them. Had it been such, they could forgive themselves and move on.

But it wasn't.

It had been a grueling, twelve-hour war they'd fought to the bitter end. Thunder Mountain had been merciless with them all, but the Team had torn through the wind, rain, and mud with their strongest and finest performance to date. Rockets, buckshot, knives, broken bottles, .38-caliber bullets, custom-tooled cartridges, bats, shovels, needles; everything they had was used to its fullest. The nine had killed with a determination they seldom experienced, not just individually, but as one living entity. The fight was for the true and honest sport of brutal carnage. They had fought for something.

All throughout the day, from dawn to dusk, both sides had white-knuckled it. It was without a doubt the most physically and mentally taxing battle they'd fought to date.

A battle they had flat-out lost.

They'd had to ride the tram back to Home Base with their heads down and their hats over their eyes, the Administrator giving them her usual "You're all pathetic excuses for human beings" speech through the intercom system. Bruises, gashes, and bullet wounds were plentiful from surviving Humiliation. There was hardly an inch of skin or clothing on anyone that wasn't caked with blood, dirt, and gunpowder. Their bones ached, their wounds were screaming, their pride as a unit had been bludgeoned, and it took every drop of willpower they had just to stay upright in their seats.

But worst of all, they couldn't even say it was worth it.

Their best hadn't been enough.

Metal wheels screamed to a halt as the tram pulled into Home Base's Station. The wail narrowed a few eyes, but no one had the strength to cringe. The nine hauled themselves up and slid out the double doors, their stride slow and eerily smooth. As they entered the Main Commons each man broke away from the pack and took his own route, moving through the dark, wooden hallways in silence, faces weary and pained, like spirits bound to haunt the corridors of their lost lives.

Scout wandered to the Rec Room and flung his bat to the ground before falling into the oh-so-inviting couch cushions face first. He didn't even care that his shoulder was still bleeding or that he had a bullet hole clean through his left thigh (his bat could double as a cane, turned out). He was asleep in mere moments.

Demoman, his burns smarting the whole way, trudged down through the Northern Corridor; likely to tap into his personal alcohol refinery and drink until the whole night was barely more than a fogged dream.

Sniper and Spy vanished together but moved separately; one down to the West Wing and the other up to the East Training Grounds.

Engineer moved straight ahead, down the longest hallway which extended due North from the Main Commons and ran straight through the entire building (they called it the Spine). His workshop was waiting for him in the back.

Pyro migrated down to the Base's bowels, which was expected; he only slept in the Boiler Room when he was at his worst emotionally. Presumably, in his mind, snuggling up to the boiler's spitting flames was like sleeping with Mum after a nightmare. That's what it seemed like, at least.

Soldier was far too drained to scream about their hideous defeat, and migrated upstairs to the Core Intelligence Room, where all his familiar maps and base layouts and strategy plans lay splayed across the oval table, and where his sleeping bag lay open underneath the table.

Heavy didn't have the energy for it, but he offered to walk with Medic to the Infirmary anyway, as he did every night. Medic knew better. He assured Heavy that tonight it would be best to just sleep. Heavy didn't argue. The Russian took Sasha into his arms and carried her off through the wooden and concrete corridors.

As Heavy moved through the hallways, he brought his precious gun close to his chest. "Ssssh, sssh sssh sssh sssh ssssssh, leetle devushka, do not cry. Is true, today was bad day for Team. But, we did best we could, da? We keel many cowards today. Hundreds! Dis is why we make best team, Sasha. We may lose, but they will never win."

He whispered to her in Russian for the rest of the journey. It was the only sound aside from his heavy foot-falls and the Base settling in around him.

In Heavy's barrack, the floor and walls were made of weathered wood. His bunker and the chest of drawers with it weren't in much better condition. Over his and Sasha's bed hung the Soviet Flag, shone as proudly as could be. There were several light tears in the cloth along the edges from the numerous times Soldier had ripped it down and tried to burn it. He never had gotten far enough with it before Heavy would catch him by the throat and toss him through a wall. The boards were still over that hole in the wall.

Heavy pulled the covers back on Sasha's bed, laid her down so gently, and then tucked her in. He was smooth and slow, careful not to jarr his beloved. The man set about stripping himself of the war uniform and putting on his pajamas. The blood from some of his unhealed wounds soaked through the cloth, but Heavy didn't seem to care.

This would normally be where Heavy went to bed himself. He instead walked to Sasha's bedside and sat down on the edge with a sad, sorry eyes. He looked at her, reached out and ran a hand along her barrels, petting her. His hand stopped on the barrel ring. A dirtied thumb stroked the cold metal. He smiled.

"Спи спокойно..."

Heavy rose, crossed to his own bunker, and slid between the rough, inviting sheets. Nightmares awaited him, he knew, but he embraced them with the honor and bravery of a true Russian soldier.

For his little devushka.

I*~*I—I*~*I

Medic watched him disappear into the Base. He saw how gingerly and protectively the man carried his gun, how he brought it close and whispered soothing, reassuring words to it in Russian. Medic felt guilty, but he didn't have the energy to really think about why. Instead, he let his legs carry him off.

His body was a wreck, but his mind was still in Combat mode, relentlessly replaying parts the match over and over again in his mind, trying to figure out what went wrong. Were their defenses low? Had the enemy Spy managed to sneak in at just the right time? Was Scout not balancing himself, pushing the cart and flanking the opposition equally? What happened? Why had they lost so horribly?

The yellow chairs lining the hallway seemed to mock him as he entered his Infirmary and bedroom. The door's squeaking hinges and booming slam didn't help either. He locked the door, flicking the switch that controlled his "The Doctor is IN" sign off. A gift from Engineer, that sign. God, this place looked so gloomy by nightfall.

There was a light burbling from above. Medic groaned, pushing himself forward to his room in the back, shucking off his MediPack and propping it with his Gun against the wall. They wouldn't mind sleeping there tonight.

Medic swung the door open, peeling his clothes off piece by sweaty, soiled piece before collapsing onto his bed inelegantly. He stank of war, his bones ached, he was in desperate need of a shower, and his sheets were now a mess. He was wrung out like a towel, residual adrenaline the only thing keeping him awake.

Two white doves soared inside, one landing on Medic's nightstand, the other on the industrial door handle.

Medic huffed and looked to the light switch. "Archimedes... bitte schön... ?"

The bird on the door handle cocked its head, hopped down to the floor, and fluffed its feathers. There was a little thread tied around the light switch, which Archimedes bit and yanked down. The darkness threw itself over him like a cool blanket.

"Dankeschön..."

His eyes slipped shut but his mind refused the offer, working furiously with any little thought it could find, anything to keep him alert, anything to keep him wide awake.

Medic took his glasses off and slid them onto his nightstand. They were decorated in dirt and water, which made little speckled webs and smudges across the lenses. How unprofessional. They would need a proper cleaning come sunrise.

The moonlight shimmered through the windows in the Infirmary. He could see so through his open door; it cast an eerie shadow over his equipment that he really didn't care for. Briefly, he wondered what the Spy would be doing in the freezer at this hour. Freezing, probably.

The mattress underneath him felt stiff and lumpy all of a sudden. He shifted a bit. Why on Earth would they send the men out to war with uncomfortable beds? The only way any work can truly get done is if one gets a good night's—... sleep.

"Fess...!"

Medic sat up, though not without a pained grunt. Grimy fingers rubbed his grimy face, and ran through his gravelly, grimy hair. He was a train wreck. He knew it, too. Not the first time a busy man like him had fallen victim to the sleepless night.

"Vhat did ve do wrong, Archimedes..."

The bird wasn't there, of course. He'd already waddled back into the Infirmary to go looking for that well-hidden Spare Organs bin again. His other dove, Socrates, remained with him, however, and ruffled his wings in response.

Medic sighed. It was going to be one of those nights, then. It was going to be rough, and even worse tomorrow. Everyone would have the renewed energy to acknowledge their pain, to complain about it, to call to him for help, to demand that they be top priority on his list above all the rest of the Team. He'd need some help for this one.

He stood up and kneeled before his bed. His fingers slipped under the mattress and hoisted it up, just long enough for Medic to snatch something out from underneath. Then he let it drop.

This something was a weighty, hardcover, title-less book.

Medic held this book in both hands and simply looked at it. His lips twitched, eyes full of a dark loathing seldom seen in the good Doctor. But as this hatred arose, Medic blinked it away and began flipping through the pages a bit frantically.

He soon found what he was looking for. At page 238, a polaroid photo slid out of the pages. Medic took it gingerly. His emotions shifted in an instant to something more loving, longing, and sad. Memories washed through his sore thoughts like a cool balm.

One finger moved over the picture, traced its lines.

"Oh... Wie ich vermisse dich... I want to sleep tonight... I want to dream... Die Tage waren wir jung und dumm... Please..."

He laid a delicate, meaningful kiss to the sleek paper, and held it close.

The Doctor replaced the photo and then the book. He flopped back onto his bed and began nodding off. Socrates glided to the floor and nudged the door shut, leaving a crack just big enough for him to slip through. It was only polite to leave their friend in peace, as his life was hard enough. This was something that Archimedes, who had nestled himself within a nicely lathed large intestine for the night, would never understand.