Title: Death Adder
Category: Games » Team Fortress 2
Language: English, Rating: Fiction Rated: T
Genre: Romance, General
Pairing: Saxton Hale X Helen (Announcer)
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.
N: I don't fucking know, man. I haven't written straight shit in a looong time, so I'm anxious, but... yeah, okay, whatever. Also, totally forgot to namefag on the chan. Oh well.
Upon first hearing the words, "I have a representative for—," Saxton had been annoyed, and cut his new assistant, Liam or whatever his name was, off — the time taken chit-chatting with little companies was time taken out of his strict re-education of the supposed revolutionaries in the parking lot of Mann Co. When he'd knocked the beret off the last Beat foolish enough to stick around (really, "I'm slipping in blood" was no excuse for staying behind), he'd grabbed the phone with a level of skepticism that was nothing to shake a stick at.
"Saxton Hale speaking," he'd boomed confidently, wanting to convey to whoever was on the other side that, yes, they were speaking to the man of Mann Co., and that yes, he was the kind of man you could trust, come Hell or high water, but that he was also Very Busy At The Moment.
The rough female voice that responded caught him so stomach-punchingly strong with surprise that he only caught her first name: Helen. Just as well; the surname didn't matter, and with a woman who sounded as fine as this one did, he would never have bothered with it even if he'd known it! All women were easier to woo if you kept up a level of familiarity, after all — Saxton would know.
"TF Industries?" Saxton had barked immediately after Helen had properly introduced herself. He frowned heavily at Lionel; why hadn't he said it was TF Industries?
"Yes," she'd responded with the voice and tone of some sort of divine, reverse-Siren; a voice only a Real Man could appreciate.
They'd outlined a deal, a massive deal that, if Saxton was a Hippie or such, he would have questioned the morality of. As it was, he boomed with laughter. From what little Helen had divulged, TF Industries had one of the manliest, most testosterone-fueled plans he'd ever heard of; a mindfuck of epic proportions that, if discovered, would have dire consequences... How exciting!
"So, Helen!" Saxton had switched the subject as soon as the basics of everything were laid out. "You sound like a woman capable of enjoying a good steak — how does tomorrow evening sound?"
Helen laughed; there came a scratchy, almost frog-like noise from the back of her throat that sent Saxton's blood rushing up, hot with lust and adrenaline. "If you can find me, Mr. Hale."
She'd hung up on him, and he'd decided that, with God as his full-bearded, voyeuristic witness, he would have her.
At precisely 3:30am the next morning, Saxton had burst from his bed in an explosion of energy, swiping up the plate of bison meat, ostrich eggs, and hashbrowns, all steaming hot and nearly overfilling the ceramic plate Mr. Bidwell had put them onto.
"Sir, you have—"
"NO TIME," Saxton had interrupted, ripping into the bison-meat steak with his teeth alone. "I've got to fly out to meet a dangerous woman, Bidwell! A snake hidden inside of a raven stuffed inside of a fox masquerading as a panther!"
"But sir—"
"NO TIME." With that, he'd poured the rest of his still-steaming breakfast directly into his throat, and run down the stairs two at a time. On the eighth-to-last step, he leapt; his feet landed jam into his boots, and he used the momentum to perform a front aerial out of the nearby window. One of the Beats from yesterday kindly cushioned his fall, and Saxton sprang up without hesitation, running full-fledge to his private jet.
"JERRY!"
The pilot (who slept in the jet on all weeknights, as part of his contract) had jumped, nearly spilling his coffee on himself. "Yes, Mr. Hale?"
"We're flying to America as of right now."
"What—"
"HURRY UP, MAN; I WON'T KEEP A LADY WAITING ANY LONGER THAN STRICTLY NECESSARY."
He had arrived in Washington at 7:42pm. Though that was approximately one hour sooner than any commercial flight would have arrived, Saxton was still bothered; he should have chosen a speedier way to deal with the rogue geese who had stormed his jet.
Saxton had pushed the entirety of his muscled, glorious male body through the front doors of the TF Industries building, deceptively innocuous in appearance, but equipped (in large part by his own company and by Spytech Industries, LLC.) with state-of-the-art defense (and offense, but that wasn't for the public to know, of course).
"Mr. Hale," that deliciously hoarse voice had come out of nowhere, like a Death Adder springing up just as it was trod upon.
Saxton had turned to look directly at her, and the force of her beauty was like a knee to the solar plexus — her sharp, Feldgrau suit, grey tights, talon-like nails, and put-up hair; the dark allure of her make-up, all in militaristic shades of green; her fierce gaze and perfect posture... She was a damn fine woman. The curves on her were dangerous, and made the sharp angles on her many times more obvious and appealing. He could imagine her riding him, the way her legs would clench, the raw scratches she would litter his back with—
"Call me Saxton."
"All right, Saxton." Helen had exhaled his name like a puff of cigarette smoke inhaled too quickly. "Where, exactly, are we going?"
Saxton was at her side in three strides, his large form shadowing her as he took her arm. "Where aren't we going?"
N: Durp.