Chapter Text
It was a typical, grueling morning for the mercenaries. Doing this type of relentless work had long since become a familiar kind of routine to them; practically as natural as breathing and blinking. Spawn. Die. Kill that enemy. Push their cart back. Get a health kit to stave off death a little longer. Die anyway. Spawn to repeat the cycle all over again.
So yeah, it was a typical morning. The only difference to any other day was that they were stationed in Thunder Mountain today. But even then, it’s not as if they were charting unfamiliar territory with the site. They scoped out the area before the battle ever began; nothing but the usual protocol.
Soldier didn’t notice her until much later.
His teammates had been slaughtered, sent on their way to respawn. He was the only one on the frontlines, pushing the payload back to reverse some of BLU’s progress. A sane man would have left to regroup with his team once they returned. It would have been a smarter move than sitting on the cart alone. But it was pretty clear to anyone who stayed around him for just a few moments that Jane “Soldier” Doe wasn’t exactly the most sanest or smartest man around.
Which is why the choice he made that day was strange.
He was fully immersed in his mission, his survival instincts tossed to the wind and replaced with the singular objective of pushing back against the enemy. He was struggling—fighting against the pain and soreness he felt gripping his protesting limbs. Soldier knew the enemy would be right around the corner, waiting for him with guns drawn. That didn’t matter. He just needed to push back. That was his main objective.
How did he not notice her until just then?
At first, it was just a flash of yellow. A golden kind of yellow that reflected light back at you as you examined it with a curious wonder. Then he realized, amidst all the bombs and guns and bullets and shrapnel, that there was a loud cry. No—a blood curdling scream. One that’s ripped violently out of a person’s throat by whatever caused it.
And then he saw her.
She was filthy. That was the first thing Soldier had detected—filthy and sobbing, cheeks rosy and wet with sorrowful tears. Then, upon further observation, he realized how pathetically small the girl was. (It wasn’t until later that he found out it was from frequent running and malnutrition.)
A child. In the middle of a battlefield. Encircled by killers of all kinds, who were armed to the teeth and filled with bloodlust.
He would have probably started to question how the hell a kid got to this place if he hadn’t suddenly recognized the unmistakable sound of a minigun revving in the distance.
Back to that choice he made.
You see, on an average day on the cruel and unpredictable battlefield, Soldier would have been right back to the task at hand. Just forget that there’s a random kid that’s probably going to get killed later by a stray bullet or bomb and keep pushing the cart like the obedient and dutiful mercenary he was.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, something in him shifted—pushed him towards another path. The path where he abandoned his mission, scooped that little girl up in his arm, and rocket-jumped his way out of there to safety.