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When you go around defying justice, it is just a matter of time that justice kicks your ass. No matter how much effort you put into hiding corpses or try not yo blow landmarks up: there is always a chance that you suddenly find yourself surrounded by cops ready to blow your brains out. Then you are brought before the judge, Who says very ugly things about you. Then you spend the night in a cell.
Most of the time, thanks to your company's efforts, it is only one night. Sometimes you have to wait between bars for a couple of days. But one night, you always get it.
You have been there enough times for the other inmates to notice you, attract their attention. Then start getting curious. Ask questions. Those nights are terribly long and one kills the time as he can. So many recur to a little talking.
There is a typical, mandatory question for the new ones, specially when the are as funny-looking as the mercenaries:
How did you end up in here?
That is the same as asking why you were destined to make a living out of killing others.
Scout wasn't really asked, but he speaks anyways. Dear Lord, does he talk. He talks so much a few think of killing him to get some sleep. Playing with the dog tags around his neck, he smirks. He just needs an invitation, as small as insignificant as it could be, to see the door open and start with the verbal diarrhea. Just one or two are listening and not with the proper attention, but he hears himself and that's more than enough; one could say it's the only thing he wants. So, smirking, he lets the words come out like bullets in a machine gun:
"Ever been to Boston? Not the touristic part: I mean the ugly part. Yeah, that's where I lived with my Ma and my brothers. One needs to be fast to get out of trouble before it gets you, and I was so fast. I won plenty of competitions at school and middle school; I got medals and all back at home. I could've gotten a scholarship for college, become like Jesse Owens, but there was this tiinny problem: we were broke. My Ma worked double shifts and still had just enough not to go hungry. I hated not having money, not just because, if you don't got the greens in your pocket, you go nowhere in life. Nah, I hated it because I saw guys at school used to get cool toys for their birthday and Christmas, wore these fantastic outfits, while all of my clothes and toys were inherited from my brothers, and I could never have anything nice of my own. So I started doing lil' jobs to have money to be as cool as they were, and maybe buy my Ma a new dress, because she only had one and it was worn out—Hell, all mas deserve a pretty dress if they want it! But it wasn't enough. Some were rude enough not to pay me after I did the job or kicked me out with stupid accusations like eating the orders or stealing money from the cash register. I was going nowhere and the other kids kept laughing. Then I realized who had money up in Boston: drug-dealers. Don't be mistaken: I'm no gangster or nothin'. I need my lungs and senses clean for running. I just took advantage of the guys who got their hands dirty. Those fellas sold that shit, earned but profit, then I showed up, distracted them, sometimes spilled rumors so they jumped at each other's neck, then ran away with the money. A lot of money, I'm telling you! I could buy Ma all dresses she wanted! I told her I found a good job, of course—I didn't want her to be worried. But, yeah, these gangs, they started finding me suspicious, and every time they found me around their precious money, they had a gorilla ready to crush me. Having fast legs wasn't enough. One of these days, the Pachuco sent me his biggest, meanest guy. He was a monster! He was crazy! He sent his rottweilers after me! I grabbed an iron bar from a building lot and did away with the mutts. The guy came to me, intending to do what his dogs couldn't. I was cornered. I had nowhere to go. I never wanted to be a murderer. I was just a thief, and a good one; one of those who steal bad money from bad guys. But when you find yourself in that kinda predicament...When I saw him ready to turn my bones into dust, I said to myself I couldn't be Mr. Nice Guy no more. I knew it was him or me..."
There are still blood splatters on his running shoes. He looks down at them and raises his head at his audience to repeat, remarking his words gravely:
"Them or me...At the end of the day, you got to make a choice. And it's a very easy one, ain't it?"
Soldier stands next to the door like he is a sergeant made of wax. He knows Miss Pauling will come any second now to release him and he is ready to get out of there and perform whatever atrocity she wants him to perform next. Many are curious about him. What is a soldier like him doing in a place like this? When he is asked, his apparently impassible expression shifts into a grin.
"Patriotism! That's what I do! What's what I've always done! My father died in Nicaragua fighting for America, and when the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor, I wanted to water this land with my blood too! But apparently my blood wasn't enough for the US military and rejected me! In every damned branch! They alleged the stupidest reasons: 'you are too young', 'according to our aptitude tests, you are too stupid to give you a weapon', 'we have severe questions about your sanity'...I spit in their reasons! So I said to myself: fine, if my country doesn't want me to fight for it, I'll go and fight on my behalf. I bough a ticket and flew to Poland. The very day I arrived there, my heart bounced, the dead buried under that ground were shouting all the atrocities the Nazis had done to them! Do you think an American can allow that? Do you think someone born in this precious land, in whose blood runs the best from every country in the world, can keep calm and allow those critters to keep doing what they were doing? You thought I could have stayed at home, buying war bonds and waving flags, while my blood was boiling, demanding me to do something? Hell no! I used all the ancestral knowledge to track down every one of them, and the trace sent me to a cabin in the woods. A filthy Nazi lair! A disgusting rat lived in there! He was trembling like a kid when I came in and demanded and explanation on his contribution to the slaughter! He told me he was not a Nazi, he said he was just a baker, he said he had nothing to do with the Nazis, tried to convince me war was over...But he was trying to fool me! Everyone was good back then, no one heard a thing, no one knew anything! He begged me not to kill him, said again and again that war was over. Sure I didn't fall for that! There was this thing in my chest telling me all of Poland was infested with Nazis and he was not going to change my mind! He was too fat to have undergone a siege! He was one of them! So I snapped his neck, right there, and claimed his head for justice to all of his victims! For the next eight years, I did nothing but kill every Boche and collaborator I found! And I would do it again, a million times more!"
"Wait a second, did you say eight years? So does that mean...? Don't you know war ended in 1945? You probably killed a..."
Soldier looks at the know-it-all with fury and snaps his neck. Everyone looks at his corpse, lying on the ground on his stomach with the head looking at the ceiling, and no one dares to speak again.
"A million times, I say!" Soldier roars.
There was a 50% of probability that Pyro was sent to the wrong row but no one could check what their sex was. The man who tried to remove her suit got both his arms ripped off. So they just sent her with the rest of her team. Not that it would matter if they realized their mistake: no man in there is going to lie a hand on her, if they found out the truth, as desperate as they could be for female company. The other guys smuggle tobacco but she managed to get what she was interested in: the matches. They all look at her as she lights one, lets it consume before her eyes until she's got a black skeleton in her fingers, then starts over. She is usually a listener, but hearing others talk seems to have encouraged her to speak. It is difficult to understand what she says, but they try to make some sense out of her mumbling.
"I remember. It used to be me, Mommy, Daddy and María. Daddy said there were no jobs in Tijuana and told us we had to cross the border and live with the gringos, because the gringos had plenty of jobs. I didn't know what a gringo was and I'm still not sure, but we were eager to see new places. Daddy taught us the language of the gringos: one, two, three; Where is the blue car?; See Jane run. He made us practice so much I barely remember the way we used to speak before. Daddy is very clever and a good daddy. He gives me piggy rides and braids my hair and sings to me: Twinkle twinkle little star...María is jealous, I know, but I can't help loving him to the moon and back. Yeah, I love my daddy...He makes me happy and I do what I can to make him happy. Where could he be? I haven't seen him in a really long while. Last time I saw him, him and everyone in the house were sleeping. I came into the room because I wanted to give him a big surprise: I wanted him to wake up to find the room gleaming with pretty colors, like a kaleidoscope! That would make him very, very happy for days! So I stole the matches from the kitchen since Mommy wasn't there to stop me, made fire at the feet of the bed, closed the door and walked out of the house snickering. You should have seen it! I went to the yard to see a big, gorgeous rainbow over the house, so big and pretty the neighbors and even the cops and the firemen stopped by to see it! Some buddy I didn't know came to me and told me Daddy, and Mommy and María were gone, and sent me to some playhouse. He never told me what he meant, where they went. Perhaps they are in here? I have been looking for them everywhere. But I'm not worried. I will eventually find Daddy and ask him if he liked my little present."
Those who don't understand demand an explanation from those who think they do, who have curiously gone pale. Their curiosity increases when those don't reply and get as far away as they can from Pyro. Then, they hear the muffled giggle inside the mask and say to themselves...They don't really want to know.
Who put Demoman into a cage with regular food and water? Give him scrumpy, be compassionate! There he is, in a corner, fighting against imaginary enemies, shouting at the walls, fainting, recovering consciousness to tell his mother not to punish him. Is this guy a murderer?, some ask. Then, Demoman seems to recover a bit of his sanity, turns his eye at the guy who said this, and frowns.
"You've got no idea of who I am! Does the name DeGroot ring any bells? No? It should! Sulfur runs through our veins! We are the royalty of demolition men, Scotland's got all those lakes and craters and ruins thanks to my ancestors' bombs! ...Yeah, my ancestors and I are Scottish! Why do you act surprised? Is it because I'm black? Long story, and I don't know all the details, but I heard our beginnings date back to the enslaving days in Angola, Kenia, I don't know, is that important? We are and have always been Scottish, period! As I was saying...Where was I? Yes, bombs! We make bombs, and we are proud of it! We are so proud there is no one who can do it better than us! That's why we don't want anyone in our family who can't make bombs! That's why it's tradition to abandon them at birth, until they prove worthy of the name of DeGroot. I was abandoned at the gates of a church and the reverend and his wife adopted me. Good people, not gonna lie. They were good parents. I almost bought they were my real parents: they didn't have as much melanin in their skin but they loved and cared for me so good I was like their birth son. I was a little bastard, like all kids, but tried to behave, so they wouldn't be upset, because they were good to me. But, as I said, I was a kid. The sulfur in my blood called me to fire bangers and make all kinds of experiments to see them blow up. Don't you really got something to drink? You think what's in the toilet...? What? Oh, yeah, I was saying...Kids don't know how to calculate risks or take precautions. I had this big plan to capture the Loch Ness monster and become rich at its expense, and it involved blowing all of the lake and that bloody thing up. I prepared a combination of hydrogen and oxygen. Got it all carefully set up. Then, I heard the ice cream van coming and ran downstairs to get some. Big mistake. My mom back then thought it was a good idea to open the window to let some fresh air into my room; she was always complaining it smelt like ten thousand devils...I forgot to warn them not to touch or do anything, and when oxygen filled the room...Well, I heard the explosion from three streets away! When I ran back to the house, the house was no more and my parents were no more."
"That's too bad, man." Someone tells him, trying to be empathetic.
Demoman nods a little at first, slightly, then he raises his head and a big grin grows on his face.
"With that, I proved my family and myself what I am! I am a DeGroot! We were born to blow the whole world and everyone on it! You call it tragedy, I call it destiny!"
Soon after uttering those words, he passes out, unable to resist much time without alcohol. Perhaps the guards will be kind enough to slip a bottle through the bars and get him out of his misery.
Heavy just crossed his arms, sat in a corner and patiently waits for Miss Pauling to get him out of the predicament. Sometimes he gives the impression he is sleeping. But he is listening to every word that it is being said. He usually never opens his lips, but tonight, encouraged by Medic, he starts to speak to him, only him, and the rest, since this is a most unusual event, listen attentively.
"My father was farmer, but had big ideas. Culture, tradition, freedom, beauty...He wants me to have big ideas too, so I leave the farm and become a professor in university, so tells me to go to Novosibirsk. I get doctorate and make him proud. He was good father, good neighbor, good man. But it is not enough for communists. The big ideas, they weight more than goodness...He was against revolution. Wrote papers, protested. The government came to the house. Opened every drawer. Made us go out. My father is shot at the door. We can't bury him or even close his eyes. They send us to the gulag quick. Why? Hm. Guess we against the Party too somehow. My sisters are little. Zhanna is barely ten. Make us work hard, all of us, and give us very little food, not enough. Sisters cry all the time. Mother cries all the time. They torture me, because I am man, father's only son. Burn me with cigarettes and irons, then urine on wounds, slap, whip. Everything they came up with. Mother cries more. It annoys them. One man slaps her, tells her: 'Quiet, сука!'. You have mother, Doktor, what would you do if your mother is slapped and called сука? I tried to be patient, but patience runs out. Something broken inside. Here. I grab man and punch him until he stops moving and my hand breaks and is full of blood. Men come. I break them all. Break necks, slam heads against walls...I grab keys and get family and everyone out. But before, I get gasoline, dose corpses and wounded guards, and burn the gulag down."
There is a small pause. He rises his dead cold eyes to some point on the ceiling.
"I had never killed before, but when patience runs out...I could not stop...I have not stopped killing ever since."
To which Medic nods, understanding.
Engineer almost seems like he's having a good time with friends in there. He has his legs crossed and cracks jokes all the time. More than once he declares he regrets they confiscated his guitar, because he's in the mood for a ballad. Of course, he likes the conversation, listens and also wants to intervene. The smile never once leaves his face as he speaks:
"I grew up alone. I wasn't an orphan, though—let me explain. I was always home alone. Momma left the house one day to never come back, when I was eight, because she became tired of waiting for Pops to come back home. He used to leave for work and one didn't see him in six, seven months. I managed. I was in that age when kids must know how to manage on their own, and I never considered myself stupid enough to go hungry. Pops told me what to do: taught me how to use the oven, gave me money to buy groceries with, told me to go to the neighbors if I had some kinda problem...I didn't need to: I did well. I learned how to do the laundry and cook all by myself. I even enjoyed the freedom I had, to go chasing tadpoles and play with my friends till late. It was the nights which scared me. For a kid, the nights, and mostly when you are alone, are scary as hell. I saw monsters in every corner. Pops told me about all the people I had to be careful with: folks to knock at the door late at night, asking me to let them in, others who don't bother to ask...And that's what happened one night, when I was twelve. Some guy sneaked in. He probably heard a kid was living in there alone and thought it was a goldmine he couldn't let escape. Or perhaps it was one of those people my dad pissed at work, who came looking for him, or tried to get revenge hurting his family. But surely he didn't count on one crucial component in the equation: I was Fred Conagher's son. I heard his steps and got under the bed. The guy mocked me. Thought I had pissed my pajamas...Heh! I still remember the look on his face when he realized I was just grabbing Pops' last and most useful piece of advice before he left: a Winchester model 21 which made the sunnuvabitch regret he set foot on my house! Hah! You should have seen his face before I erased it!"
And he laughs. For a good while, he laughs, proud at his younger self, fondly remembering the times past.
Medic is out of his infirmary, away from his experiments, wasting time inside this cell which he could be spending on something far more interesting, and changes his posture every second, has walked the cell a thousand times. His bird has come to visit. It has slipped through the window bars. He coos at it and caresses its feathers stained with blood, and his imprisonment seems a little less of a burden. Was he always like this? He smiles.
"Since the very moment of my birth! I have always known I was made for something great. Why are you smiling like that? Perfection is not a chimera, like the mediocre say, but something we must all aspire to! Yes, call me crazy. I have heard that before. When I was small, I heard that often. My brother Hannes didn't understand me, my twin sister Klara thought I was a weirdo and enjoyed ruining all of my plans and experiments, the maid thought I was not right on the head and my mother, she used to say I had 'a vivid imagination'. My father was a doctor and he could understand my hunger for knowledge a little, didn't think it was inappropriate for a child like me, but he was shortsighted, couldn't even imagine that I wasn't satisfied with knowing how things worked—I wanted to command them, twist them into whatever I wanted them to be! No, no one understood me and mocked me. Even the neighbors' dog. God, did I hate that hound! He took pleasure in being silent then coming out of nowhere to bark at me like a beast from hell, and enjoyed my terror! He chased me a little just for the pleasure of seeing me run screaming! For some time, I was scared of that thing. Until I started thinking. About my situation on the order of the world compared to his. My skills, in front of his brutality, which wasn't such, because, when he misbehaved, his owner kicked him and he retreated back into his hole whining like a worm. Sometimes, gentlemen, you just have to kick the confounded dog, and that's what I did. I showed up in front of the neighbors' house and offered myself for one more chase. Pretended I was scared. But I wasn't scared. I turned around, grabbed him and did what I had seen the maid do to the chicken in the yard. Crack! He served for a purpose after all: I hid it inside the gardeners' hut, under a blanket, stole one of my father's scalpels, and thanks to his corpse I learned a lot about canines and organs."
"Yeah, but when did you start killing men, Doc?" Someone asks him.
Medic shrugs nonchalantly.
"When I accepted this job, and had a BLU face to face. I realized men are no different from dogs."
Sniper is not the talkative type. He doesn't like to talk much. His job, after all, depends on keeping quiet so the guy whose brains he's going to blow doesn't realize he's in there. But he usually mumbles a lot to himself. Tonight, he's got an audience, who asks him how he became a man hunter. At first, he doesn't want to talk, stays in his corner and just tells everyone to shut up, covering his face with his hat so he can get some sleep. But they insist and he, who's got his share of conceit, can't resist. Without removing the hat, he says, with that low voice of his which makes him barely audible:
"We were farmers, but there's this thing about the Australian weather and you must be prepared to face hard seasons. You must know how to hunt or you might go hungry. So I was taught how to hunt, by my father. I was not a man hunter, I was sixteen and I just hunted rabbits, deer, pigs, goats...But the neighbors forced me to. There was this sheila whose bedroom was right in front of mine, so I could see everything going on." He smirks a little at someone's comment that he surely saw her changing her clothes, her walking around in her panties. "Not my type, but anyway—the thing is, she was her father's type. Yeah...We knew that Old Jensen made his girl sit on his lap and touched places a father shouldn't touch. Did we tell the police or something? No. My parents thought that was none of our business, and guessed the mother would find out at some point and break his head. But she never did a thing. Her husband beat her so bad he made her blind, deaf and mute. I was tired of seeing the girl cry night after night. One day, Jensen had apparently touched every inch in his daughter's body and wanted to go further. She started whining loudly. The mom, like always, was nowhere to be seen. But I heard it and decided I was tired of that crap. I grabbed my shotgun and applied my dad's advice: lean forward, flex your knees and don't think, just pull the trigger. The first headshot in my life. The brains gave the pink walls a nice touch to them. My parents of course knew what I did and protected me, because the guy had it coming. The wife and daughter never tried to find out who did it, or knew and never told. They just buried the bastard pretending he was a decent man and moved out. But someone saw where the shot came from. A guy named Chilton, who was one of the biggest ranchers in town. He came to me and told me he wouldn't tell the cops if I did him a favor: get rid of his brother Manfred, with whom he had a dispute over an inheritance. I was a kid and I was scared, so I did what I was told, because I didn't want to go to jail...That's what I made him believe. Because, while I was getting rid of his brother, I was planning how to silence him forever, because I knew, I knew he wouldn't keep his part of the bargain. And when I finished the job, I quickly turned around and before he could react, I blew up his head too...I didn't have experience but I knew...I knew I was born to kill men, not animals..."
Spy lights a cigarette. He has gotten tobacco somehow. Of course, he is not sharing. He sits in a corner, listens to all stories told around him, while smoking calmly. He, like Heavy, is patiently waiting for Miss Pauling to come, and if she's not, he's got a plan to take advantage of the warden's visit during the morning. Everyone has seen at least one spy movie and want to know how one gets those nice cars, pretty suits, unlimited money and technology and all the ladies. He smirks at that question. At first he doesn't reply. He does not bother to. But they are being insistent, so he complies to his audience:
"A spy is made, but the best are born. People born cold, silent, unmoved by the cruelest sights."
He pauses. The others are impatient to hear more; they want to hear about his particular case. He smokes peacefully before continuing.
"Me? Yes, perhaps I was born that way. Or maybe I was made like that. It was only my mother and I, and we lived at Madame Pigalle's red house...Yes, it was a house of prostitution. Do you find it funny, Scout? We have heard you: I am a literal son of a bitch, very clever, may I continue? Thank you. It was only her and me and I couldn't stay anywhere else while she satisfied the demands of her clients, so I became invisible, inside a closet in the room. I saw things no child should probably see, but I never once cried or betrayed my presence. I was quiet until she was finished, then we lied on that disgusting bed and she sweetly sang me to sleep and promised me one day we would get out of that lifestyle and be like one of those families in the movies, in the streets. She was very young when she had me and was very pretty, and that was what doomed her, because all men found those features attractive, including the vermin of society. There were these two rich boys who often came to see her. Spoiled brats who treated her like she was a toy, because they had all doors open thanks to mommy and daddy's money and my mother was willing to do anything for a few coins. They thought they were in their right to do as they wanted with her, since they were paying, and one night their games were so brutal they killed her. They found it very exciting to see her gasp for air while they were doing intercourse, so they stopped using their hands, grabbed a belt and wrapped it around her neck...They were insensitive to her pleas to stop. That only excited them more and encouraged them to choke harder. And I saw everything from my hideout. I didn't make a sound or move an inch. I don't think I even blinked."
He drags his cigarette silently. Eager eyes are on him, but he is slow, deliberately slow. It feels like torture.
"The madame didn't want me in the house anymore, since I was now an unproductive liability, but the other prostitutes were more understanding. They gave me all of their money so I could survive for some time and gave me my first task: find whoever did this to their friend and make them pay. It could be said it was my first assignment but I needed no one to tell me that, before I found my place in this world, I had to settle things. Back then, I wasn't developed yet and looked like a girl when using the proper outfit. Those two were so drunk, so willing to try thrilling, forbidden experiences that they didn't mind about my short age: they just found a naive-looking girl they lured into a bed. But that girl kept inside her skirt a broken glass she had grabbed from a trash can. And since they were too drunk to defend themselves..."
He puts out the cigarette against the wall and expells the smoke. In that gesture, many see the glass sinking into necks and eye sockets.
"Wow...It sounds like you had a hard life, man." A man exclaims, captivated by this terrible story.
"No. I just fooled you all. My personal life is none of your concern and you are crazy if you think I am going to tell you." Spy declares then, making them angry and becoming deaf to their demands to tell them a true story.
But by the way he stares into space, there has to be some truth under all those lies, somewhere.
And the mercenaries go silent again, patiently waiting for the moment they are free to kill again, and again, and again...
THE END