A/N Boop. Hey, it's been a while since I've posted anything writing-related. I played TF2 for the first time a few weeks ago, I tried writing some other TF2 fics before but they weren't really nice to work on, so I went back to what I do the best, angst and silly fun.

This takes place primarily in the game in some sort of 'AU', so you don't have to have read the comics or what have you. The mercs are dead and the game is an afterlife of some kind.

Soldier's and Spy's chapters are done but they are messy and need to be fixed.

Trigger warnings will be placed at the start of each chapter.

TW: Blood, but you knew that already. :P

Please leave a comment on your way out if you can, even if it's to scream at me for breaking your hearts. Fare thee well.


Scouts were never one for thinking deeply. The rush of bashing heads in and retreating out of bad situations blocked out any forms of thought other than your goals.

This is why Scout hated the in-between of death and respawn. Not only was he impatient, but the black void was also empty and silent, all of his senses were null and destitute, his body needed no mental power to function in this state.

This allowed for pure uninterrupted thoughts.

Trips to the void only lasted half a minute at most but that was enough to piece together memories that his mind blocked out, one death at a time.

Most of them were memories of mundane moments that held no interest to him or were happy moments with his Ma but then there was that memory.

The memory he wished he never remembered.

It was a cold December night. A gang of rivals had pissed him and his brothers off, you never messed with his mad dog pack. Never, unless you wanted a knuckle sandwich. He was first, always first, to the fight.

And the fight was brutal.

It was a blur, anytime he tried to remember it clearly was met with failure and a headache. He wasn't sure when the knives and guns came into play but all he knew was that he woke up in excruciating pain.

It was a pathetic sight really.

He was laying on the side of the street in a puddle of frigid water and blood, beaten to a bloody pulp and mewling like a dying kitten.

Where were his brothers?

Where was anyone?

Why was he abandoned?

Now that Scout thought about it he was always the one left behind. First to arrive last to come back home. Everyone, including himself, thought he could take care of himself, he can and he did but then he could not. His shattered knees attested to that.

Scout had died many times before but this was different. He was used to exploding into gibs while hearing his teammates yelling their jeers and annoyances that the other team killed their Scout. He never thought he needed to be around someone when he died. To at least have someone care even if it's just an inconvenience to them.

But here he didn't have that. Here he was on the side of the road dying slowly. Shivering and sobbing for hours, hoping, praying for anyone to notice him.

No one ever did.

And that's how it ended, with the cold and blood loss lulling him into unconsciousness.

Scout did not like to remember this memory. This was the type of memory that would make you hide away and cry for hours.

Part of himself wanted to talk to someone about this but his ego would not let him. He doubts the other mercs would even care anyway.

Battles with the other team kept him occupied from his thoughts however. But some days it still haunts him, messing with his skills in battle. The others always saw it as his off days.

But something always bugged him. This memory seemed like an important one despite the pain of it. Like a turning point, the height, the top, the apex, the end.

He doesn't know why he feels this way, but all he knows is that he wants to forget.

But he never will.