Erm, uhm... Hi, I'm Zero.
This is my first fiction, so any and all criticism is welcomed, nay, begged for!
Updates will be very irregular, by the way.
Happy halloween, and I hope you enjoy the fic!
CASTLE FORTRESS 2
"Demoman... Wake up Demoman..."
A voice, high-pitched and british-accented, rung through the darkness.
Demoman lay sprawled on the old four poster, clutching a bottle of scrumpy in one hand and his trusty claymore, the Eyelander, in the other. He scoffed, turned over, and huddled his one eye closed, trying to get that annoyingly high-pitched voice out of his precious drunken sleep.
"MISTER DEGROOT AWAKEN IMMEDIATELY OR YOU WILL BE FIRED." The voice suddenly screeched.
Demoman's eye flew wide open, he shot up quickly into a sitting position, his head still spinning from the alcohol and now throbbing from a hangover that was starting to bloom just at the front of his skull. He looked around blearily, not caring about the room he was in; a dark, musty guest bedroom with the singular redeeming feature of a large, comfortable four-poster bed and a small candelabra glowing cozily on the meagre bedside table. Though, to the drunken scottish cyclops, that irritatingly english voice was familiar... He listened hard, trying to find the source of the voice. But the only living thing his eye landed on in the dark, dank room was a bat that lopsidedly flitted far too close to his head for his liking. He shrugged, thinking it was all probably his brain playing tricks on him, took a swig from the brown bottle and settled back down to try and get back to sleep.
"TAVISH!" the voice screeched again.
"Wot?!" he yelled back, at nobody in particular. The bloody bat was still flying around his head, it was beginning to seriously annoy him, and it wasn't even daybreak yet. "Can ye nae see tha' I'm tryin' te sleep here?!" he shouted, crossly.
"No time to sleep now Mr. Degroot, you have a job to do!" the voice squealed.
"Who're you te wake me up, tellin' me te get t'work? Tha's Sol's job!" he yawned, feeling the headache hit him full force. He grimaced, drawing the bottle to his lips for another sip.
"Mr. Doe isn't here." the voice squeaked again, and Tavish could hear the stress and anxiety that ran through it, as though it had been stretched taut like a violin string.
"Oh, aye? Then where is he?" he slurred back.
"I. Don't. Know." the voice snarled through gritted teeth. The bat flapped its wings even harder. The noise was starting to make Tavish rather annoyed now, he wished he could find the source of the voice so he could shut it up with a nice little homemade nitroglycerin bomb present of goodwill. But it still sounded so much like he'd heard it before someplace, but where could it have been?
"Then could ye git someone else te wake me up please? Thanks, mate." he slurred, hoping that would make whoever it was talking to him leave so he could get back to sleep and get rid of his hangover.
"Nobody else is here either, mate. Please get up." the voice said.
"Fine, 'ave it your way." Tavish held up his hands in defeat, hoisting himself up to a sitting position. He couldn't make out any real detail of the room he was in, anything that was in it, or even the size. Fucking depth perception... he thought to himself, cursing his one eyed existance. The only thing he was actually certain of was that their was no other person in the room other than himself and that blasted bat, fluttering as furiously as ever.
"Where th' bloody hell are ye, though?" he said, eye wandering around the room, blinking blearily in the dim light.
"Right here." said the voice, still as high pitched as ever, as though its owner had been sucking on helium. The demoman looked around, but saw no one, still that blasted bat, whom he could've sworn was starting to look a little fatigued from all that annoying flapping around aimless. Or maybe... No. Thought Tavish. Bats can't talk, I'm nowhere near drunk enough. Right? Still unsure, the scot looked around blindly, hoping to catch a trace of movement from something living that wasn't a bat. God, it was getting annoying.
"Wot? Where? I cannae see ye, lad. Are you cloaked or somethin'?" he slurred helplessly.
"Ugh. I am not a 'lad', Mister Degroot. I am, in your horribly grating dialect, a 'lass'. And I am not cloaked. I am literally right here in front of your face. And I need your help. Can you please not be... that kind of person right now?" the voice sighed irritably.
Tavish now finally understood that the voice wasn't just awkwardly high for a man, but in fact belonged to a woman. He slowly nodded his head in realisation, but with that revelation another confusing question arrived out of the alcohol-induced fog in the front of his mind that made his brows slowly knit together: had he heard this voice somewhere before? As he thought this, The bat slowed down to a wonky hover a few feet in front of the confused scot who wracked his brains for any type of answer to where the woman was that didn't sound like it was coming from a stupid, lost six-year-old coming off anaesthetic.
"Erm..." he said meekly, "are ye behind th' bat?"
"AAAAARGGHH!" the voice cried, the owner finally snapping in anguish. The bat dive bombed him, hitting him square in the chest with full force enough to knock him on his back again. Demoman yelled out in surprise, and groped for his sword, his free hand letting go of the bottle and flailing wildly to get the disgusting creature out of his face, all the while still screaming muddled profanities in shock. The caramel-coloured liquid in the bottle spilt all over the sheets, the smell of apples and alcohol beginning to mix with the musty air. It rolled off the bed and clunked onto the ground, the thick brown glass barely chipping on the half-rotten floorboards.
Finally, the Demoman had a grip in the handle of the four-foot blade, and swung it blindly, clipping the bat on the wing. It screamed in pain, and that's when it finally hit Tavish like a shovel to the face: the person speaking to him was the bat. But surely... No. Unless...
"I AM THE BAT!" screamed the bat, now writhing on her back on the sheets, dark red blood pooling together with the strong smelling drink. Tavish looked on, stunned. He picked the bat up out of the mess, holding her up to his face by her claw-like feet. She looked tired and furious, her inky-coloured, almost purple fur messy and dripping with the pungent sweetness of the scrumpy and coppery scent of blood. Her breathing was heavy with fatigue, and her almond-shaped black eyes glinted in anger and wonder that how another human being could be this dense.
"Bloody 'ell." the demoman muttered, slack jawed in shock.
Meanwhile, in a horrible little apartment's cramped back room, a dim light was emitting from a skull-sized crystal ball, the events in the room with the four poster bed reflected in it like a mirror. A man sat hunched over the ball, his beady white eyes peering at the man with the eyepatch and the talking bat; all-seeing, all knowing and all infuriated-that-his-idiot-roommate-hadn't-taken-out-the-trash-in-three-weeks-and-now-the-apartment-was-starting-to-smell-like-rotten-halibut.
The dark-clothed man watched the one-eyed explosives expert take the pillowcase off a large feather pillow, coughing as a fine layer of dust puffed into the air with the movement. He eyed him dry the sopping wet bat off, tousling her fur, her eyes closing in pain and reluctant comfort as the grimy cloth clumsily worked at her fur to get her dry again, and he looked on as the massive sword was used to cut long strips of fabric from the other pillowcase and wrap it tenderly around her injured wing. He listened to them, cautiously interested in the pair's confused conversation.
He only got past the first few words when a harsh, midwestern accent roared for "MERASMUUUUS!" from somewhere in the apartment, interrupting the tranquil peace, snapping the shrouded man with a goat skull perched precariously atop his head from his quiet brooding.
"WHAT IS IT, YOU VILE HEATHEN?" the magician yelled back at the top of his lungs, his voice grandiose and ostentatious despite the cheap, cramped surroundings.
"YOU HAVEN'T COOKED DINNER YET! HURRY UP!" the voice continued. Merasmus sighed at his idiot roommate's irritating presence.
"NOT UNTIL YOU TAKE OUT THE TRASH, JANE!" he roared back.
His roommate wasn't letting up. "DID SUN TZU EVER TAKE OUT THE TRASH BEFORE HE ATE? NO! HE HAD HIS LAYABOUT ROOMMATE DO IT FOR HIM! NOW COME DOWN HERE BEFORE I HAVE TO TAKE DISCIPLINARY ACTION!"
Merasmus put his fingers to his eyes, rubbing them exasperatedly. This was going to take a while...
"CAN YOU NOT WAIT?! I HAVE WORK TO DO!" he eventually yelled.
"A MAGICIAN ISN'T A REAL JOB!"Jane screamed back. Merasmus took offense.
"YES IT IS!" he cried.
"LAZY HIPPIE!"
"DROP DEAD, YE MALODOROUS APE!"
After this short, heat-filled exchange which ended as soon as the flimsy wooden door to the apartment slammed shut, the magician tuned back to the crystal ball, looking back upon the demoman and his new talking bat companion. He chuckled maliciously.
"Well." he said menacingly. "Looks as though two naughty little children have stayed up past their bedtime." He waved his hand over the crystal ball, revealing a dark, ironclad jail cell. Its wall rattled as the beast within charged against the rusted bars, blocked by a thin wall of impenetrable magic. Merasmus smiled.
"This'll wipe those stupid smirks off the faces of those other card-tricksters at the convention..."
"So, then." began the Demoman. "Have y'always been a bat, or is this new?". Said bat was now swinging idly from the hilt of the large claymore, now run halfway into the bed to serve as a perch of sorts.
"I was human before... How I've turned into a bat is not something I remember very well, it's... fuzzy, no pun intended. I believe it is the work of some sort of magic." the bat said. "That's why I need your help. I hear that you have knowledge of... this sort of thing. Surely you can help me become human again?" she cocked her head to the side.
"Ach, no ma'am. I cannae help ye with yer problem. My field's cryptozoology, not transmorphiguration. Might pay t' ask a magician, but th' only one who comes to mind... well, les'say we're not exactly friends." Demo said. "An' by 'not exactly friends' I mean he's responsible fer this." he continued, lifting up his eyepatch to reveal... nothing.
It was just a blank patch of stretched skin over the now empty socket where his eye used to be. If bats could make expressions of extreme disgust and disturbance, then this bat was sure as hell making one, and then some.
"Bloody hell, Tavish, put that away!" she cried, covering her eyes with one wing. The lowered the patch as he looked stupidly at the fuzzy talking animal in front of him. Then, it sank in that whoever this bat used to be, probably knew him.
"Oi oi oi, wait. How'dye know me name?" he blurted out suddenly, "Do I know ye?" The bat looked at him as though he'd sprouted another head. "Is just tha' me memory's not exactly the greatest, is all." he continued, scratching the back of his head confusedly.
"...It took you three quarters of the chapter to figure that out? Bloody hell, all that alcohol must have really done a number on you." the bat spluttered, shaking her head, disappointed at his utter density as a human being. "Of course you know me! You came to see me when you took up your job at RED!" she cried. Demoman's eye wandered as he wracked his brains. Something was clicking, but he didn't know what... "Oh come ON! Surely you can remember me? What was it you said a few months ago... erm... 'Works for the angry lady who yells at you when you fight?'" the bat said again, hoping desperately she was making something work in his scrumpy-flooded memory banks.
It hit the demoman like a bottle to the back of the head. His eye narrowed.
"Oh aye, I remember ye now. Ye gave me this sword so I could kill me best mate. Miss Pauling, aye?" he snarled, gripping the hilt of the blade, poised to rip it out of the musty bed. She nodded, burying her nose in her wings in fright. He brought his face close to hers, close enough she could see the yellow, bloodshot white of his deep brown eye, smell the overpowering stench of haggis and alcohol on his breath. If there was ever a time in Miss Pauling's life where she was truly afraid of death, it was now. Her already fast-beating heart, changed with the spell when she turned into a bat, now drummed furiously against her tiny ribcage, almost threatening to shoot right out of it. She gulped, scared. Please don't kill me, please don't kill me, please don't kill me... played over in her head like a mantra, tears beginning to come to her eyes in fear of death at this deranged man. Nothing could have prepared her for what the scotsman said next. "You, lassie, owe me a refund." he growled.
"Wh-whaaaaaaaaaaat?!" squeaked Miss Pauling in shock.
"You. Owe. Me. A. Refund!" he yelled again, shaking the sword. Miss Pauling just gaped. "Fer losin' the battle against me own best pal! I should'a won it!"
"W-well then." she stuttered, "Just... I- I'll add it to your pay, I suppose."
"Good stuff. If ye don't, I'll come round to yer house an' blow yer front doors in!" he yelled. Externally, she shivered in fright, nodding quickly in accordance. Internally, she breathed a haggard sigh of relief, a small attempt at a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She hoped that that would be the end of that.
"Right!" shouted the Demoman, springing up from the bed dramatically, looking around, peering into the dark, dank, musty old room. "Where in bloody hell are we?"