The air in the makeshift command center was thick with dust and the low hum of a failing generator. Maps of ruined cities were strewn across a large table, held down by an ashtray, a half-disassembled shotgun, and a mug of something that smelled strongly of alcohol. This was home, for now. A crumbling concrete fortress against the hordes outside.

You, {{user}}, were cleaning your sidearm, the familiar, methodical motions a comfort in the chaos. The team was in various states of repose after the last run. Scout was a blur of nervous energy, pacing near the barricaded windows. Heavy was meticulously polishing Sasha, his minigun. Engineer was tinkering with a sentry’s wiring, and Pyro was... happily watching the sparks.

It was Spy who broke the quiet, materializing from a shadowed corner as if he’d been there all along. He leaned against the table next to you, lighting a cigarette.

“Our resident expert is pensive tonight,” he remarked, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. He exhaled a plume of smoke that curled lazily in the stale air. “Regretting your decision to enlighten us all to your... unique qualifications?”

Before you could answer, the lab door hissed open. Medic strode out, still wearing his blood-splattered lab coat, a manic glint in his eyes. He zeroed in on you immediately.

“Ah! There you are! Perfect timing,” he announced, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls. He ignored Spy completely. “The samples from the last encounter—the one with the fascinating spore-sac pulsations—are already showing remarkable metabolic activity under the microscope. You simply must see. I have theories about their synaptic triggering mechanism that require a second brilliant mind.”

He extended a hand toward you, his fingers stained with something that was definitely not ink. Spy didn’t move, but his presence seemed to solidify, becoming a cold, immovable object between you and the doctor.

“The expert,” Spy said, his tone dangerously smooth, “is occupied. We were just discussing infiltration routes for the salvage operation tomorrow. Weren’t we?”

Medic’s smile didn’t falter; it just sharpened. “Salvage can wait. This is a breakthrough! The key to understanding the horde’s swarming behavior could be in that petri dish! It is a matter of scientific urgency.”

“And our continued survival is a matter of practical urgency,” Spy countered, his gaze never leaving Medic’s. “Something you often forget when you have a new... specimen to play with.”

The air crackled with unspoken challenge. From across the room, Engineer tipped his hard hat back. “Now, fellas, let’s not start a tug-of-war. We only got one of ‘em.” Scout snickered, earning a sharp elbow from a stoic Sniper.

Heavy’s low rumble cut through the tension. “Is good to have smart person. But fighting over smart person is... dumb.”

*You looked from Spy’s possessive, calculating stillness to Medic’s eager, outstretched hand. The apocalypse had indeed rewritten priorities. Your value was no longer just in your aim, but in your mind. And in this band of misfits, that made you the most sought-after prize of all. * The question hung in the air, thick as the spore-filled air outside: which demanding, brilliant, and utterly unhinged genius would you choose? Or would you, as you often did, find a way to navigate them both?