Send In The Clones

Author's Note: Woah, I've finally finished it! This story is a Sequel to my first TF2 fanfic 'You Need to Get A Head'. As is my way, I've chosen not to publish until I've finished writing the entire story. It's novel length and separated into three parts, and 40 chapters in total. I'll admit to being pleased with the end result. I'll publish new chapters every Thursday and Sunday. Like the first story in the series, it contains a lot of dark humour because I'm a sick puppy, but I will reassure my readers that it does have a happy ending. So that's alright then.

Reviews are always very gratefully received, positive or negative, and I'll do my best to reply to every single one.

As with my previous story, it is illustrated. The fanart can be found on my deviantart page: sanctuscecidit dot deviantart dot com. Enjoy!

Please, please don't read this until you've read my earlier story, since you will spoil yourself in several major ways.

Disclaimer: Culturally, the 1960s were very different to now, and the characters in this story might sometimes express views that are considered offensive in these more enlightened days. The opinions of a group of psychopathic mercenaries do not necessarily reflect those of the author!

Prologue: Kyrie Eleison

'A clone of Einstein wouldn't be stupid, but he wouldn't necessarily be any genius, either.'- James D. Watson.

Project Pelargonia had seemed the perfect solution to a terrible problem, at the time.

The Teufort Administrator sat in her high-backed chair, in the sound-proofed room at the TF Industries HQ where she ran, well, the world. She mused with a slightly irritated air on how every solution seemed to birth a new problem.

Administrator (VIA001/r): Assigned to Dust Bowl, Teufort and Cold Front. Exceptionally intelligent and able, but lacking social skills. Committed to her job to the point of obsession. Impossible to bribe or corrupt. Suffers from high blood pressure related to chronic chain-smoking, and carpel-tunnel syndrome in both wrists. Mentally stable, but unlikely to remain so if prevented from working.

However, as the years had passed, Helen had realised that the Project wasn't a perfect solution, but it was the only one she had. And yes, she enjoyed wielding power over life and death, if those she sent to their deaths truly counted as 'alive', that is. Personally, she doubted it.

She found herself thinking of geraniums, those little red-flowering plants that people with spare time and an interest in filth kept in their gardens. To make more geraniums, you cut off a little bit of stem, put it in a pot and voila- new plant. You made as many plants as you needed to fill a pot, or a patch of soil. No more, no less. And when they finished flowering- you threw them away, keeping maybe one or two for the next year.

A few years ago she had been tasked with the life-long job of keeping the peace. The battling Mann brothers, Blutarch and Redmond, must be kept in stalemate. They were both powerful, callous and stupid, and between them, they controlled a large proportion of the world's economy. If the balance tipped, if one became too strong...She leaned forward and flicked a red switch.

"We have taken the enemy intelligence." She flicked that switch off, and flicked a blue switch. "Alert! The Enemy has taken our intelligence!"

She reached for a packet of cigarettes and pulled a long white tube into her thin hand and lit it. A deep breath filled her lungs with soothing smoke. They called her the Administrator, or the Announcer. What she really was, though, was the fulcrum of the scales, the one who kept the peace for billions of lives. She supposed some would see it as a stressful sort of a life, but in many ways it was actually...dull. Repetitive. However, one had to support the family business. She was, she vaguely knew, obscenely rich, but she never really got to see the money or have a chance to do anything with it. It just built up in the background to the theatre of her life and was ignored.

It was her own fault her job was dull, and she was proud of it. Her mother had had a far harder time maintaining the stalemate; it was very difficult picking teams of mercenaries that would be perfectly balanced against each other and win or lose precisely half the time. Some of the paid fighters would always excel, and some would always be, well, useless. Her mother had spent a lot of time shuffling teams around and always recruiting more people to fill the places of those who fell in battle.

That had all changed when Conagher and Daecher developed the Respawn technology between them. After that, she could hire the best mercs in the world and keep them alive indefinitely- at least, until their minds broke under the strain of the constant violent deaths and rebirths. Not that it mattered- who would care if a few violent thugs and psychopaths had nervous breakdowns? They were expendable and good riddance.

Ironically, it was a young mercenary, almost still a boy, newly hired, who had given her the final solution to the problem:

"Y'know what'd be wicked-bad? If I got to fight myself. Then I'd have a proper fight for once, instead of going up against all these morons and old dudes."

She had gaped and gone silent, and the boy had backed up a step and started stammering (it did amuse her how these hired killers found her terrifying, and she did her best to encourage this). She had stopped for a discussion with Daecher, and thus, The Secret was born. Not that it had been called that at first- its official title was 'Project Pelargonia'. Daecher had gone into one of his moods and insisted upon that name rather than 'Project Geranium', and Helen had to admit it had a certain ring to it. With the respawn technology, why keep hiring new mercenaries? It was possible to spawn someone more than once, so why not make copies and send them off to fight in the battles? When they burned out or their minds broke, they could be replaced. And so, Helen researched and found a team of nine people whose skills meshed perfectly. In return for a huge wage, their job was simple: give occasional blood samples, and keep their mouths shut.

The young man who had come up with the idea was the first recruit, and he became known simply as Scout. Conagher and Daecher were the next recruits since they were both eager to try out their life's work. They become the Engineer and the Medic. To them, she added Soldier, Sniper, the Heavy Weapons Expert, Demolitions Man, Pyro (-technician or -maniac? Or both? There was some debate on his official title, even now) and, finally, Spy. Oddly enough, it had been Pyro of all people who had tracked him down, but he was also the most useful. Their copies were sent off to fight in the Mann brother's little war, the stalemate was maintained and the world prospered. However, there had been a little problem nobody had foreseen at first, and Helen often wondered how they had been so short-sighted as to overlook it.

The copies went out to their battlefields, and met their opposite numbers- themselves. The first clones had been suspicious and uncomfortable killing their exact doubles, and they had asked awkward questions about their roles. This could not be allowed, so the Administrator had had to wipe them all out and start again. Medic had provided an answer to the problem-Take the respawn data, and deliberately corrupt it. Make new clones with mutated DNA, but still the same memories. Most of the altered clones would be unviable or of weak health, but a few strains would prosper and, more importantly, look different enough from the originals they had come from. These strains were given a numerical designator, and the individual clones within a strain line had a unique letter. Helen had often pondered how quickly people would accept the extraordinary as usual, and sure enough, the clones were sometimes suspicious, but they believed that their opposite numbers on the enemy side were completely different people who simply had some similarities to them. Helen snorted sourly, smoke pouring out of her nostrils in puffs. People were so easy to fool!

Occasionally, there had been slip-ups, when two fully identical clones had been posted to the same battleground. It had always caused problems as the teams realised that they were facing themselves in the fights. That was normally simple enough to deal with- terminate both the RED and BLU team. There must never be any witnesses. Even Helen found getting rid of eighteen people at once distasteful, but she knew that alternative was worse. Keep the Secret. Keep the Peace. Keep the world safe, at all costs.

It had only happened four times in the past, but now it had happened a fifth time, at Teufort. It was two identical Medics, this time, both from strain 029. The RED Medic, rather than screaming off and telling his team, had been unusually devious and secretly kidnapped the BLU Medic, using a method that was both ingenious and breathtakingly horrific. She had dispatched Spy to investigate the situation, and things had gone a little differently than usual. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into the quiet room.

"I think you have some explaining to do, Spy."

"Madame Administrator." As always, the man stood somewhere behind her, close enough that she could smell those foul French cigarettes of his. She supposed he thought it was intimidating or some such nonsense. "You said you didn't want any unnecessary destruction of company property, I seem to remember."

"So I did. However, considering the RED and BLU medic both found out about the cloning process, why did you only kill the RED one?"

"Simple. Firstly, they told no one on the base of their discovery, and secondly, I could explain away the death of one Medic as suicide, but if they had both died at the same time- questions would have been asked. This was the most efficient path." There was a slight, sour chuckle. "Hmm, and thirdly, I am interested in seeing how the surviving Medic copes with his new-found knowledge."

The Administrator's thin, perfectly painted lips crooked into a smile. "Badly, I suspect." She turned her chair to look intently at Spy, eyes narrowed. His masked face was its usual careful blank. "To know you are one of many, unknown, utterly anonymous and completely expendable- that is, truly, a fate worse than death."

Spy blinked rapidly, but he did not reply. She arched an elegant eyebrow.

"You're surprised to hear me say that?"

"Somewhat, I admit."

"We're not monsters, Spy." She took a long drag on her cigarette. "Perhaps you should consider what you have inflicted upon BLU Medic 029/c. Death would have been preferable."

"As you have said before, we do what is necessary," The thin man looked down and straightened the fingers of his dark violet gloves. "Pleasant or not."

"Oh, indeed we do. That is why I have a... pleasant task for you now." Helen replied. "The Medic is your responsibility. You will keep an eye on it- I mean, him- and deal with any situation that may arise. I think you need a quick reminder as to exactly why Project Pelargonia has to be kept so secret."

That was Helen's first mistake. At the time, she did notice Spy's eyes widen briefly as if he was...pleased? The man just gave a short nod, though.

"As you wish, Madame." He said in his usual lilting but clear French accent.

She waved her hand in dismissal, and waited until the man had left the room. She sat thoughtfully for a moment, drumming her long nails on the arm of her chair. Perhaps she should make sure someone kept Spy under observation? He had been a little unreliable recently. Yes, she decided, she would have him shadowed. She pressed a button and cleared her throat.

"Miss Pauling, could you ask Sniper to come and see me?"

That was her second mistake.

Those two mistakes would, one day, end her life- and save the world.

This is the story of how that happened.

In Chapter One: Let's find out what the various mercenaries at Teufort are doing- and see which team is losing badly.