Chapter Text
"Engi?"
As you pass over the doorsill into his workshop, you're greeted with the sound of a rhythmic clank, denoting what could only be metal contacting metal as your eyes adjust to the bright fluorescent of the shop, razor-sharp white against your dusk-attuned eyes.
There's a faint melody sounding just below the noise, and as you push your way through a short hallway stacked with boxes teeming over with gears, springs, nuts, and bolts, you see him: the stout Texan humming along to an older instrument, something distantly familiar to your babe eyes.
Over all the racket, you're sure he wouldn't have noticed your approach, so you politely clear your throat and tap your knuckles gently against the wall to your right.
His head swivels up quickly, undoubtedly ready for something less savory than your frame just before him. It took no detective work to know everyone was always on high alert around here. You chalk it up to occupational hazards.
Though his eyes appear owlish at first due to his ever-present goggles, they make a rare appearance when he lifts the pair to his brow and shiny blue hues grin at you.
"Runner," he says, voice milky and warm. With his movement, you follow as he steps away from his machining and pats his hands down with a spent oilcloth. The object of his work looks like an intimidating beast of engineering, a large red turret of sorts with rattling guns attached to its sides and monstrous belt clips feeding into them.
"Hi, Engi," you say back with a voice equal in warmth. You smile at him and mean it. Your mood is pristine tonight despite the tumultuous moments of the day. You ended on a good note, with a belly full of Sniper's snacks and a pep in your step, having done something you never thought you could do: shoot.
And shoot well.
The Texan makes his approach, wiping some sweat from his brows, and comes to you with a hand poised for your side.
"Come, take a seat. I was hoping you'd spare a visit here soon. I even tidied up a mite."
You look around, and though you perk a brow at the immensity of the clutter, it does have a sense of being reined in.
With his arm collecting you, he brings you toward the turret and seats you on a milk crate to its side, and he paces over to the device playing his music to fuss with it. You watch on, hands collected in your lap, with a quiet smile playing at your lips.
"What is that?" you ask as he replaces a vinyl with another one. They're produced from a neat stack under the table that houses the collection and the turntable-of-sorts.
He looks over his shoulder, curiosity piqued and follows your eyes with a look of realization.
"Ah!" he laughs. "Gramophone. My paw-paw's. Well— 'grandfather' might be more familiar to you."
When the new disk is aligned beneath the needle, he wipes off a smattering of dust and beams at it. He drops the needle, and a smooth melody begins to play, sounding weathered and homely.
"Do you know this one?" he asks, finding his seat next to you and quickly grabbing a wrench to wipe down mindfully.
The music stutters to life, swelling and changing, and though it's familiar, you wouldn't know how. You shake your head.
"It's Bing Crosby, darlin'." He smiles down to himself as the music swells with woodwinds, and the room is cast with a lush sense of nostalgia. All at once, something in you unfurls like a blooming flower. A memory resurfaces.
"Home on the Range," you say with a hint of pride. A wave of warmth spreads through you, memories of your grandmother’s hands deftly handling a needle on her old record player. You almost forgot those evenings spent curled up by her feet, the notes carrying you both to simpler days. "My grandmother would play this. I can't believe I almost forgot."
Engi smiles up at you, putting his wrench down and leaning forward into his turret. "Correct. I knew you'd know it." He resumes his tinkering, and you watch on like an awed child as he dismantles one of the belts and puts it by his feet.
It stays like that for a few moments: stillness and sound. He would merry himself away with his toying, and you'd admire a man invested in his work. It reminded you of Sniper a little when he was reloading his casings. You couldn't help but appreciate someone who really enjoyed what they were doing.
It was peaceful—a nice change of pace.
Soon, the music lulled, and the white noise of the record took over, but only for a brief moment before Engi stood and replaced the needle, letting the song start anew.
When he took his seat once more, he put his goggles back atop his eyes and leaned forward, reaching for a torch on a table beside him.
"It'll be a little loud, miss. Just warnin' ya."
You nod to him and brace for the sound. Sure enough, as the torch springs to life and hisses, it's a bit of a startle. But you adjust to the noise and watch on, still and engaged.
"Did you need anything tonight?" he asks after turning it off a moment. "Or just some company?"
You wet your lips in thought. "Sniper told me I should get a gun from you. For protection."
He nods, finishing up with the torch quickly before putting it back in its original spot and pacing for one of the many walls of boxes surrounding him. He rifles for a moment through one, muttering quietly about how "it's usually right here" before trying another one. On the second box, he's successful, "A-ha!"-ing before bringing you a cute little thing.
In his gloved palm is a small gun, eclipsed by his colossal hand, but when you pick it up yourself, it perfectly fits yours. It's weightier, too, despite its frame. It feels robust and well-made.
"It's cute," you remark, holding it up for inspection, mindful not to point it at Engi. You think you see him smile.
"Sniper's a good teacher, I can see." He comes forward and puts his hands on yours and, guiding you, places your thumb over a notch on the side, just behind the barrel. He depresses it with your thumb, and the chamber unrolls, revealing six slots full of bullets.
"Wow!" you gasp. "This is different than the pistol he showed me today."
He nods over you. "This is a snubnosed revolver. I call 'em snubbies. It doesn't have a magazine like a pistol, and it's a little more beginner-friendly. I'd show you how to fire it, but my workshop has had its fill of unnecessary bullet holes."
You laugh at that and nod your understanding. "I think I understand the gist of it. Open the chamber, load the rounds, and shoot?"
"Correct, darlin', at least for the most part. It's a cylinder, not a chamber. And, see that right there?" His index finger taps on the back of the gun, just above the handle. There's a metal piece jutting out maybe half an inch above the frame. "That's the hammer. You can pull that back, and it shoots like a hairpin. Or–" he lifts the gun out of your reach and opens the cylinder, popping out all the bullets within. When he returns it to your hand, you inspect the open cylinder before clicking it back into place. "Try a dry-fire," he instructs.
You point the gun away from him, aiming for the farthest wall of the room. As you depress the trigger, it has a lot of resistance, and just before it "fires," the tension releases, and you hear a click.
"Wow, that's a heavy trigger."
He nods. "Pull back the hammer."
You do so. It takes a little fighting, but it's not hard. Once it's pulled back, you look up to him, awaiting further instruction.
"Dry-fire again."
You do so with a little more neediness, anticipating that similar resistance, but the trigger falls under your finger like it's nothing, and you immediately hear another click. Your brows raise, and you look up at him with utter perplexity. "How does that work?"
Engi picks up the revolver, holding it carefully in his calloused hand, and gives it a once-over before he starts talking. He glances at you, offering a small smile.
“Now, y’see this here hammer?” He taps the hammer of the revolver with a gentle touch. “When you pull it back like this—” Engi pulls the hammer back until it clicks, “—you’re doin’ most of the hard work up front. That there’s what we call single-action.”
He sets the revolver on the workbench between you, turning it so you can see the hammer cocked back. “In single-action, the hammer’s already sittin’ pretty, all ready to go. When you press the trigger now, it don’t have to do as much heavy liftin’. It just releases the hammer. Makes it a whole lot easier on your finger.”
Engi mimics a light trigger pull with his hand, as if you could feel it too. “But if you don’t cock the hammer and you just pull the trigger from the start, well, now that’s called double-action. The trigger’s gotta do two jobs — cock the hammer back and then let it loose. Takes a bit more pressure and some more pullin’ to get there.”
You watch on, rapt. He speaks to you like you are: intelligent and keen. You like knowing how things work, and you have gathered Engi does, too. Some of his excitement rubs off on you.
He gives you a reassuring look. “That’s why cockin’ the hammer first makes the trigger so much lighter. You’re givin’ it a head start, so it ain’t tryin’ to do it all at once. It’s like… what’s that phrase you like?” He pauses, then chuckles softly. “Right, it’s like cuttin’ to the chase. Gettin’ right to the point with a whole lot less effort.”
A part of you lights up, excited to know more about this strange little object you'll be carrying with you from here on out. The trepidation that preceded this fades with the knowledge that you know how to use it, and how to use it safely.
"Try it once," he encourages, hand lifted to you. "Watch the hammer pull back as you dry-fire in double-action."
You don't hesitate, lifting the snubbie and pointing it down towards that same wall again. You pull on the trigger slowly, watching as the hammer follows your draw until you fully depress the trigger. When the gun clicks, the hammer snaps forward into its original position.
"So cool," you whisper. He chuckles above you, hand pilfering through his overall pockets to provide the six bullets he removed from the cylinder earlier. He hands them to you. As you handle the revolver, something in your chest settles — a feeling that you’re in capable hands, both your own and his. Engi’s soft chuckle feels like a pat on the back, reassuring and kind like he’s proud of you for trying.
"Feel free to load it. It won't go firing without your finger on the trigger, so you can keep it anywhere on ya. I recommend under your belt, but first, you'll need a belt." He smirks at you, and you blush a little, feeling underdressed for your position — time to invest in the right gear for a nascent mercenary.
As the two of you settle back into silence, the rhythmic hum of the gramophone fills the space. You find yourself inspecting the revolver in your hand, your fingers tracing its contours. The realization of what you’re holding, what it represents, sends a chill down your spine — a weight you've only just started to appreciate.
Engi’s voice breaks the quiet, his tone softer, almost reflective. “You’ve been doin’ real well so far, y’know,” he says, his eyes never leaving the turret as he tightens a bolt. “Come a long way in a short time. That’s not easy.”
You glance up, surprised by the compliment, unsure how to respond. He must notice the uncertainty in your eyes because he chuckles, shaking his head. “Ain’t no need to say nothin’. Just means you’re learnin’ faster than you think.”
You nod, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. But the weight of the revolver pulls your thoughts elsewhere, dragging you back down to earth. “Engi… can I ask you something?”
He pauses in his work and looks over at you, his expression open and encouraging. “Shoot.”
You swallow, grappling with your thoughts before speaking. “How do you deal with… all of this? I mean, knowing that… even if you come back, you’ll still—” You hesitate, searching for the right words. Before, the issue was simple. Not easy, but simple: try not to die. Now, it seems the issue is twofold: try not to die, and if you fail step one, don't spiral out in the "respawn machine."
You sigh. “Yeah. Just... how do you handle it?”
Engi pauses, setting his wrench down and resting his arms on his knees as he considers your question. His face grows thoughtful, a hint of sadness clouding his blue eyes. “Well, darlin’,” he begins, voice softer than before, “that’s somethin’ that ain’t easy for anyone. And I won’t lie — knowin’ that we got a second shot at things through that respawn machine… it don’t make it easier, not really.”
He glances away, as if looking for the right way to explain. “It’s a strange thing, dyin’ and comin’ back. Even for folks who’ve done it a hundred times, it messes with your head. Makes you question what’s real and what ain’t.” He sighs, giving a slight shake of his head. “But here’s what I think: it ain’t about whether or not we get another go at it. It’s about keepin’ our feet on the ground, holdin’ on to what keeps us here.”
You listen closely, unsure if you fully understand, but appreciating his honesty. He continues, his voice steady and warm. “That machine… it’s a tool, same as anythin’ else. But it don’t make us invincible. It don’t erase what we go through or the weight of what we see. And that’s somethin’ you gotta come to grips with in your own time.”
He leans forward slightly, meeting your eyes. “But for what it’s worth, Runner, you’re doin’ just fine. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and you’re takin’ things as they come. That’s more than most can say.”
You look down, fidgeting with the revolver in your lap. “I guess I’m just… afraid. Of what might happen. Of—”
“Of what it means?” he finishes gently. You nod, feeling the tension in your chest ease just a little at the understanding in his voice.
Engi takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “You know, it’s okay to be scared. Hell, we’re all scared sometimes. Even with all this fancy technology, this job ain’t exactly a walk in the park.” He offers you a small smile. “But here’s somethin’ I’ve learned over the years: it’s okay not to have all the answers. It’s okay to not know what’s comin’ next. And most of all, it’s okay to lean on the folks around you when you’re feelin’ lost.”
Your eyes stay fixed on him, following the subtle movements of his hands as he speaks. They seem steady but hesitant, fingers tracing idle patterns across the wrench as if grounding himself in the tangible. For once, his words aren’t woven with the easy confidence you’ve come to rely on; there’s a slight falter, a tension in his voice like a fraying wire barely holding a current. Beneath that practiced calm, something unsettled churns, an undercurrent of doubt threading through his words in a way you’ve never heard before.
The air in the workshop feels thick, almost stifling, carrying with it the scent of warm oil and metal shavings. It clings to your skin, amplifying the tightness creeping across your shoulders and into your throat. Engi’s voice — steady and measured — tries to mold the intangible into something solid, something that makes sense. But the words feel like trying to grasp smoke. We are both alive and not, and how do we deal with that? It lingers between you like a question unanswered, a chill that sinks into your bones and leaves you feeling hollow. You force yourself to stay still, trying not to let the unease show, but every word sharpens the edge of that invisible thread pulling you taut.
He’s doing his best to tether you both, to ground these uncertainties in something familiar, like the hum of machinery or the rhythm of an old song playing in the background. And in that effort, there’s a kind of quiet desperation, an earnestness that makes your heart ache. Engi’s resolve shines through the uncertainty, a hand surfacing above dark waters, and despite the turmoil swirling inside, you can’t help but feel grateful. Grateful for his stubborn belief that things have meaning, even when neither of you can fully grasp how.
He pauses, and for a moment, you hear only the hum of the gramophone and the quiet rustle of gears in the turret beside you. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” Engi says softly, and there’s a quiet confidence in his voice that makes you want to believe him. “It might not always feel like it, but it will be. We’ve got each other, and we’ve got a job to do. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep us goin’.”
"I'm still so unsure," you say quietly, thumbs clamped down over your knees. "I want to believe you. But all of this is so foreign and strange. Like I'm staring up at a massive wall I've no hope to climb."
The air in his lungs gives out, and he hangs his head, somewhat defeated, but it's only for the briefest moment.
"Runner, you ain't alone. That's all that matters. And we'll be damned sure to keep you safe as best we can. Keep a little faith, and faith'll be keepin' you."
You look up and find him staring, his goggles back up on his head. Though his eyes are searching, they also carry a sort of plea. They say, "Trust me."
And so you do. If you trust anyone here, it's Engi.
"Sounds like the hard stuff hasn't even started," you say, mustering a smile. "I still need to get set up with that machine."
The Texan gets to his feet with a grunt, dusting off his pants, before standing before you and lending a hand. "I can think of none more capable of the task."
He smiles.
You smile back and mean it.
"It's a late'un, darlin'. Would you like an escort to your room?"
The prospect is not unwelcome, but you've spent most of your day in the company of others. A late walk back to the quarters on your own was seeming more and more charming. With a polite shake of your head, you thank him for the offer. He simply nods in turn and leads you to the doorway.
Before you abscond away, he taps you lightly on the elbow, and you pause.
"I mean to leave on a high note, but I'd be remiss if I didn't at least warn ya."
You quirk a brow, a familiar pit forming in your abdomen.
Engi bows his head slightly, eyes averting, as he searches and searches for the right words to say. After a few moments, he simply sighs and looks at you with a shred of empathy.
"I'm not quite able to explain how going through that machine works. It's like a dream, but it feels very real. It'll be a little scary the first time but try to keep your spirits high and feet grounded. It'll be over before you know it."
The pit grows twice, three times its size, and you can't help but hold onto his shirt as you process. He lays a gentle hand on your shoulder, and his voice turns to a whisper. "I mean it, darlin'. You'll be okay."
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, trying to calm the tempest inside. Okay. Maybe you can believe that. Maybe you don’t have to understand it all right now. Maybe it’s enough to trust that he believes it for you, at least for tonight.
You step out of Engi's workshop, the door closing softly behind you. The warm glow of his space fades as you enter the dimly lit corridor, the gentle hum of his machining replaced by an almost tangible silence. The weight of the revolver at your side feels both reassuring and foreign — a reminder of the new responsibilities resting on your shoulders.
As you walk, you let your fingers brush against the cool metal, Engi's words echoing in your mind. Everything's gonna be okay. For the first time since arriving, a tentative confidence blooms within you. The day's whirlwind of events has settled, leaving you with a sense of purpose you hadn't expected to find.
The hallway stretches ahead, shadows pooling in the corners where the lights don't quite reach. The compound is unusually quiet, the usual murmurs and distant clatters absent at this late hour. Your footsteps sound unnaturally loud against the concrete floor, each step a steady rhythm that underscores the silence.
You take a deep breath, savoring the moment of tranquility. But as you pass beneath a flickering overhead light, a subtle unease prickles at the back of your neck, a sort of sixth sense screaming at you to check your six. You pause, glancing over your shoulder. The corridor behind you is empty, shadows draped lazily over crates and equipment. Shaking off the feeling, you chastise yourself for being jumpy. Now I'm looking for reasons to freak out.
Continuing, you notice the air feels cooler, a faint draft brushing past you from somewhere deeper in the compound. The familiar scent of oil and metal is tinged with something else — something sharp, like the crispness before a storm. You pull on your shorts in vain; they won't offer much comfort as a trail of goose pimples travels up your thighs.
A soft clatter echoes from a distant hallway, just enough to make you stop. You hold your breath, listening with ears trained on any little noise. After a moment, the silence returns, heavier than before. Probably just one of the guys working late, you tell yourself, though the explanation feels thin.
As you resume walking, the shadows seem to shift at the edges of your vision. You catch fleeting glimpses — an unexpected movement here, a darker patch there. Your heartbeat quickens, each pulse amplifying with the passing seconds. The corridor, which moments ago felt straightforward and familiar, now seems labyrinthine and uncertain.
Don't lose it now. You were doing so well.
The inexplicable feeling persists, a growing certainty that you're not as alone as you hope to be. The compound's corridors twist and turn, and with each junction, your apprehension deepens. You consider taking a more direct route back to your quarters but realize this is the only way you know.
The sound of a distant door closing echoes faintly, causing you to flinch. Your hand moves instinctively to rest on the revolver's grip. The cool metal anchors you slightly, a tangible connection to the training you've begun. Engi's patient instruction, Sniper's steady guidance — they've prepared you for this, haven't they?
"Hello?" you call out softly, your voice swallowed by the shadows. There's no response, just the low hum of the ventilation system. The silence that follows is thicker and more oppressive. You quicken your pace, footsteps echoing. "Spy, if that's you, please just say so."
If it were him, he'd have a firm talking to on the horizon. You don't take this kind of prank well.
Turning a corner, you swear you see a silhouette at the far end of the hallway — tall and still. You blink, and it's gone, leaving only an afterimage against the dim lighting. A cold sweat breaks out along your brow.
The mind conjures up threats that aren't there. Nothing is here.
But doubt gnaws at you. What if it's not your imagination? The memory of the enemy Spy infiltrating the compound resurfaces, and a chill runs down your spine. You hadn't been alone then; someone had been there to help. Now, it's just you.
The corridor seems to stretch endlessly. Each shadow feels alive, every creak and distant sound magnified. Your breaths come quicker, shallow and quiet. You reach a crossroads of sorts and hesitate, trying to recall the way. Left or right? The halls look the same, each path dimly lit and unwelcoming, and you wished you had memorized Engi's map a little better now. Why'd they build this damn compound so big—
A faint whisper brushes past your ear — a rustle of fabric, a nearly inaudible footfall. Your grip tightens on the revolver. "Who's there?" you demand, your voice steadier than you feel.
Silence.
Your eyes dart across every surface, searching for any sign of movement. The shadows offer no answers. Summoning your courage, you choose the left path, moving with deliberate steps. The sooner you reach your quarters, the better.
Just as you begin to think you've overreacted, a glint catches your eye — a brief flash, like light on polished metal. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough. You're certain now: someone is there.
Heart pounding, you weigh your options. Running might provoke a chase, but staying put feels equally dangerous. You wonder how Sniper would handle this, or Heavy, or Engi. They would stand their ground, take no shit. Time to take a page out of their books, your pulse be damned.
"Listen, if someone's there, this isn't funny," you call out, attempting authority. The only reply is the distant hum of the compound.
Then, a voice — a low, almost velvety whisper — drifts through the air. "Lost, mademoiselle?"
Your blood runs cold.
The accent is unmistakable, but it's not the Spy you know. This voice carries a sinister edge, smooth and mocking.
You turn slowly, your back against the wall, eyes scanning the darkness. "Where are you? Uncloak, you coward," you bark, keeping your voice level.
A soft chuckle echoes, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. "If you insist."
Your pulse races. The weight of the revolver is a constant reminder at your side. You have a weapon. You can defend yourself. But doubt creeps in — are you ready for this?
The lights above flicker, and for a split second, you see him — a figure clad in a sharp suit, a glinting knife held casually at his side. His face is obscured by shadows, but you can feel his gaze piercing through you.
Panic wells up, but you force it down. "What do you want from me?" you manage to say.
He tilts his head ever so slightly. "Just to talk," he purrs. "Though perhaps another time would be more appropriate."
Before you can react, the lights flicker again, plunging the corridor into darkness. Your breath catches, and you fumble for the revolver, drawing it out with unsteady hands.
When the lights return, the hallway is empty.
Your entire body is wracked from the adrenaline; nerves shot. Unsteadily, you clutch the revolver like it's your life raft in the raging ocean, and you back away slowly. Eyes dart for any sign of movement. The safe haven of your quarters feels miles away, but you know you can't stay here.
Summoning every ounce of courage, you turn and break into a swift walk, resisting the urge to run. The corridor seems to close in around you, every shadow a potential threat. Behind you, the soft echo of that chilling chuckle lingers in the air.
You don't look back.