Villain's Veil

In a rare, sober moment, the Demoman's heart was filled with dread.

He'd found the third victim this morning. The Sniper. The Demoman discovered the Sniper's body hung in one of the hunter's nests, his wrists tied with his own belt. He'd been suspended in the air, a heavy knife keeping those bound arms raised and the rest of his body off the ground. It was evident that the Australian hadn't submitted without a valiant fight. His skin was bruised, his right forearm slashed open by a clean cut. The enemy had been proud of his work. Cocky. It was probably why the invader had left the Sniper on display, like a cat presenting a fine kill to its master.

That wasn't what terrified the Demoman. He was used to seeing his teammates reduced to limp flesh. What pierced the drunken haze like a dagger was the presence of a handkerchief. It was brown, decorated in a paisley pattern. Cotton. Wrapped around the Sniper's mouth. A gag. The Demoman shook at the sight of the handkerchief. He knew where it had come from, and he could guess how it ended up on the Sniper.

That handkerchief belonged to him. Tavish DeGroot. Demolitions expert.

The attacks this week varied, but the results were the same. Everybody in the base knew what was going on. It was the work of the enemy Spy. He'd gotten the Heavy first. The Medic had found him, nearly breaking his back as he brought him to his lab. Poisoning, the Medic had told them. It was a solution derived from oleander. The Medic told them to be careful, to watch their backs. As if they needed the warning with an enemy spy loose in their base.

The Engineer was the second victim. It only made sense that the Engineer would be next in line. It had been his suggestion that they do the ethical thing and euthanize the Heavy, allowing the respawn machine to clear the poison from his body. Nobody liked the idea—not even the man who suggested it—but it was the fastest, cheapest way to deal with the poisoning. Of course, that was until the computer system that supported the respawner crashed and its maintainer turned up with an acute case of oleander poisoning as well.

Now, this.

The enemy Spy had slipped this time. That handkerchief was the proof of his disguise. Tavish had loaned out last week as a courtesy. His friend—well, who he thought was his friend—was having a terrible sneezing attack. The winds had kicked up a ton of dirt, and it was bothering everyone's sinuses. The Demoman had done what any good friend would have done and given him his handkerchief. All his friend had to do was return it, cleaned, at the most convenient time. Not shoved in the mouth of a comatose teammate.

He'd waited most of the day and night to work up the courage needed to face the transgressor. It wasn't that Tavish was afraid of dealing with a Spy. Not in the slightest. These sorts of things needed to be taken care of carefully. With the respawner on the fritz and the Medic under severe pressure, he didn't want to do anything that could result in him being hurt. He'd have to make his accusation in public. Tavish spent the night plotting, pacing outside of the Medic's lab as he thought. It was too much. He couldn't even drink his scrumpy. To think that his best friend could have—

"What are you doing out here, you one-eyed drunk?"

Tavish jerked his head up. It was the Soldier. Jane. Or was he? If he was the Spy, he'd just delivered himself into the man who suspected him the most. If not, then he was about to destroy months of bonding. Either way, this was not going to be a pleasant conversation. Tavish felt a jitter of coldness sweep across his skin. He had to do this.

The Scotsman yanked the American into the Medic's lab. At least here, he had one extra set of eyes on him. He grabbed the Soldier by his uniform collar, tossing him into an open chair. He restrained the urge to hit the American. It wasn't time. He had to be absolutely sure.

Tavish began his interrogation. "I canno' believe it was you!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" The Soldier wasn't pleased, either.

"You're it, aren't ya? You're the bloody spy!" The Demoman walked back and forth, words foaming at his mouth. "I found it, ya wily bastard! I do naugh care what ya do with me, but I need ta know what you did with mah Soldier!"

The Soldier squinted at him. "Are you sober? Good God, man."

Tavish hissed. "A' course I'm sober, you twit! I haven't been able ta drink since this mornin'! Since I found this!"

The Scotsman produced the handkerchief, the damning piece of evidence. The Soldier's eyes widened at the sight of the decorated cloth. So did the Medic's. Prior to the submission of the cloth into the conversation, he'd been busy keeping his nose out of the duo's business and treating his patients. Now, with the sudden rise in tension, he was very much interested in the conversation.

"Vat is zat, Kamerade?" The Medic asked.

Tavish turned briefly to the Medic. "It is mah hanky! And that bastard left it on the Sniper!"

The Soldier jumped to his feet. His skin was flush with dark red color. "How could you accuse me of something like that, you traitorous Tory?"

"Ya were the one that had it last!" The Demoman could feel blood rushing to his face as well, the color darkening his skin further.

Now Jane was boiling with rage. Spittle foamed at his mouth. "Don't be jumping to conclusions, Sherlock. You'd better be damned sure that I did this before you start pointing fingers."

Tavish crumpled the handkerchief, his fists clenching. "Who else could it be? I gave it to you!"

"I could be making the same accusations, Sally. It's your handkerchief, after all." Jane jumped to his feet. He rolled his sleeves back, his temper seething. The Soldier was always ready for a fight. "To think you'd accuse me of this. Poisoning a man isn't fighting! It's filthy! Underhanded! I might have to kill men for a living, but dammit, I do it fair and square!"

There was veracity in that statement. Jane was not a man of subterfuge. The man toted a rocket launcher as his weapon of choice, a flashy, noisy piece of work that could be heard from miles away. He flung himself through the air, screaming and laughing at every opportunity. War was bright and colorful to him. The Soldier had taught Tavish the same reckless tactics. The ability to fly with fire on his heels. When they went to war, everyone knew. There was no trickery to it.

Tavish realized what he was most afraid of. He snapped, his hand pointing at the Medic's patients. "I do naugh want ta find my Soldier like this! But if ya did him in, mate, I hope he tore ya apart first! I hope he knocked every last one of your pretty teeth from your mouth! I hope he grabbed ya by the chestnuts and cracked ya open like it was Christmas morn'!"

Jane wasn't one to keep his mouth shut. "You'd better be hoping you are talking to the Spy, you sloppy Scot. I'd hate to think that you'd be sharing such emotions with a man, you flaming sword."

"Ya two-timing snake." The conversation was becoming terse and petulant.

"Kilt-wearing Nancy girl!"

"Chain-smoken' crouton!"

"Queen's bitch!"

"Ya. French. Frog!"

The two ran out of insults. Their fists were more than happy enough to talk. Jane threw the first punch, knocking Tavish into an unoccupied bed. The Scotsman was quick to return the favor, catching the American squarely in the right eye. The melee devolved into rash motions, every available limb now a battering ram. A kick to one man's stomach led to a knock in the other's shins. A punch to a punch. One pinned the other to the ground, and abruptly, they would flip and fight the other way. Choking. Biting. Yelling. Pain jumbled together until neither man knew what was happening to the other.

Not until the Medic interrupted them. "Zat is enough!"

The duo stopped. Tavish was on his back, his face hot and bloody. Jane was no better, skin torn and broken by sharp teeth. It was hard to say who was worse for wear. Tavish felt sicker. Something was lodged in his subconscious, a grain of sand sticking the wrong way. This fight was unexpected. He thought the traitor would turn tail and flee. There were only two explanations. Either the Spy was an incredible grappler, or the Demoman had been wrong.

The Medic hauled Jane up by his shirt collar. He pushed him towards the lab's doors. "Get out of my lab. I vill deal viz you lata." Jane was hesitant to submit, but he left, a dark glare still in his eyes. The Demoman's stomach sunk. What if he was wrong? What had he done?

Tavish was numb as the Medic helped him into a chair. "You're foolish, you know? Taking on zat brutish American. Completely out of your mind!"

"I guess," Tavish slumped. Guilt burned hotter than his wounds.

The Medic took some gauze from the cabinets. He gave the Demoman a few swipes on the face, clearing blood away. "Now, now. Zer we go. Nozing to fret." He sighed, almost as drained as the Demoman felt. "I need zomesing to drink. Vould you like some tea?"

Tavish nodded. It wasn't his drink of choice, but after the mess he caused in the Medic's lab, he could hardly refuse. While the Medic went to his office to prepare the drink, the Scotsman sat and stewed in his thoughts. Jane couldn't be the Spy. It had to be a plant. What did he know about spies, anyway? Maybe he should have talked with their team's spy first. He knew how to spot rats.

"Tavish?"

The Medic had returned, two coffee cups in his hands. Maybe he didn't have tea cups. Then again, that might have been a sissy thing to have. Nobody would have let him live that down. Tavish muttered his appreciation and took a sip. The brew was hot, bitter. Now he remembered why he didn't drink tea. It wasn't nearly as tasty as scrumpy. Not as sweet, either. Asking for sugar might be pushing it.

Tavish didn't look the Medic in the eye. "Thanks, Doc. Sorry 'boot the mess."

"Just relax." The Teutonic man continued his work, pacing around all four of his patients. He looked weary. Tavish couldn't imagine the stress he was under. It was bad enough that everyone was falling prey to the Spy. Having to care for them all had to be taxing. The Medic didn't usually have the patience for nursing, but he'd been rather cowed and kind this week. Maybe having lost the Heavy first had hurt him. The Scotsman could relate to that.

"Any of them doin' any better?" Tavish asked.

The Medic frowned, his face grim. "Nein." He stood by the Heavy, clasping the meaty Russian's hand in his own. "Oh, my poor Heavy. If I thought zat he could have been the Spy, I don't sink zat I vould have been as brave as you in confronting him."

Tavish shook his head. The Medic was trying to give him a compliment, but it stung worse. "No. I was a fool. Shoulda kept me mouth shut."

"It vas ze right sing to do." The German was so soothing, so calm. He paced to the Engineer next, giving his vitals a thorough glance. "I should have listened to ze Engineer ven he vas still awake. Poor little man. He vas only meaning vell, too."

"I suppose." Tavish nodded his head. That fight must have taken a lot out of him. His heart felt like dull lead in his chest. He just wanted to go to sleep.

The Medic stopped by the Sniper, a slow smile growing on his face. "And you know, ze Sniper? He broke into my lab. Just wanted to watch over his little friend. Isn't zat sweet?" He stroked the side of the Australian's face, the move slow and—and—

Tavish raised his head. The motion wasn't right. Nothing was right. The Medic was being kind, caring. Not yelling at him to suck it up. Not driving him out of his slump. That gesture, that slow graze of fingers. It wasn't a move of a diligent doctor. It was possessive. And that smile! It wasn't soft, friendly. It was a cat's grin. Smug. Reassured. Victorious. And that tea—

Oh crap. Tavish jumped off his perch. His legs wobbled, collapsing beneath him. He grabbed a nearby bed, trying to get himself back onto his feet. "Ya—"

The Medic didn't move from his spot. His thumb wandered to the Sniper's sideburns, the slow motion an unconscious act. He continued talking like the Demoman's struggles meant nothing. "Just between you and me, Tavish, I zink zat I zaw him crying. Can you believe it? Zis team has one girl on it, and it's not the Pyro!"

Tavish's brain fired as fast as it would go, neurons slowed from years of alcoholic abuse. "Ya—ya—" Thousands of tiny commands flooded his mind. Run. Cry for help. Fight. Get up. Get up! His legs listened to none of it. His stomach was cramping, now trying to reject the poison he'd ingested. He needed to do something. Anything!

Now the Medic—the traitor—turned to him. "And vat vill I have to tell your soldier boy? Let's see. I vas gone making tea ven I came back, and zer you ver. Lying on ze ground. Just like zem all."

That son of a bitch! Rage lit the fuse in the Demoman's brain. He threw himself upwards, landing with an awkward sprawl on the edge of the Sniper's bed. The Medic laughed as the Demoman righted himself. The Scotsman leapt across the bed. He crashed next to the Medic, his knees as useless as a newborn's.

The traitor knelt down next to him, giving him a few condescending pats on the shoulder. "Zer, now. Don't feel so bad. You von't be alone for long. Your friends vill vake up tomorrow, and zey vill find you just didn't have a chance. Zey vill understand. You tried so hard, too." That Cheshire smile crossed his lips. "Just go to sleep, little man."

That bastard! Tavish reeled his right fist back, striking the Medic in the face. The deception shattered. The Spy was now clear to him, his nose bloodied from the sharp strike. The Frenchman lashed back, shoving Tavish into the center of the lab. It knocked him on his ass, like so many bar fights before. Tavish found himself laughing. Hell, he might as well have been drunk, the way this drug was making him feel. That was how he fought the best.

Maybe that was the one advantage nobody else had.

He didn't know how long he and the enemy Spy traded punches. All it took was one flip for Tavish to dominate the fight. One he had the Spy pinned to the ground, it was just a matter of time. The blows were fast, sharp. He didn't stop until his stomach pains forced him to turn away and heave. His mind cleared for a moment, just long enough to see what he had done. The Spy was still alive, yes, but not by much. His face was swollen, red. The Demoman found himself smiling. That pretty dandy boy, with his clear complexion. See how he likes that in the morning.

Then he passed out, like it was nothing but another hard night of drinking.

The details after that were foggy for a while. Apparently, the Scout had found the lab in a complete wreck the next morning, everybody still unconscious. The Spy and the Soldier reported the disturbance to the Administrator, who in turn sent the enemy Spy back to his team's base. Nobody confirmed the story one way or another, but it seemed like she hadn't been entirely upset with the turn of events. She did enjoy watching a struggle.

It turned out that the Heavy hadn't been the enemy Spy's first victim. When the team finally got into the Medic's room, they found the German had been drugged as well. Patient zero. It took several days and a temporary nurse's visit before anybody came to. The Demoman had been lucky—out of all the patients, he was the one with the least amount of poison in his system. The enemy Spy had been continually drugging the others, so it was at least an extra couple of days before they came around. All told, it took about a week before everything was back to normal.

Mostly normal.

It had been hard to find the right words to say to Jane. Hell, even working up the courage to admit he was wrong had been a struggle. Maybe they didn't need to be said at all. Jane had been by his side during his sickness, so the friendly Spy told Tavish. He had created a makeshift fortress in the Medic's lab, lodging furniture at every door and demanding visitors recite ridiculous passwords. In short, the American had been a pain the ass.

Tavish had been a butthead, too. "Sorry 'boot the fight, Jane."

"You're a skirt-twirling Tory, and you look like an ugly girl when you cry." In Soldier-speak, that was roughly an acceptance.

Then there was the matter of what to do with that handkerchief. Tavish toyed with the cloth. He certainly didn't want it anymore. Not after what he did. "Ya want this? 'Cause I don't need it."

Jane shook his head. "I've got my own now. It's ugly, anyway."

Tavish smiled. "Ya, it is."

"And it's got that hippie print on it. Can't take it," Jane smirked as well.

Tavish agreed. "So, what should I do with it? Throw it out?"

Jane crossed his arms. "Well, you could always return it."

Tavish frowned, not sure what Jane was getting it. Return it? But he was the handkerchief's—oh. That was Jane's plan. Both of them were now staring at the Sniper, who was in the middle of his own argument with the Engineer. They were debating coffee, yet another drink the Demoman hated. If anybody would help them run the handkerchief back to its proper owner, it would be the Sniper.

"Hey, ya skinny ass campy weasel!" The Demoman yelled. "We've got a job for ya!"

Author's Note

I'm not one to admit that I have muses. Most of the time, it's just me trying to figure out how something works. I have to admit, something strange happened the other day. I got my first miscellaneous/hat drop (outside of preorders and trades). It was the Googly Gazer. (Wait, what did you think it was?) I also happened to get my third Demoman milestone completed. In the process of reviewing which class I needed to work on next, I reviewed some of the items you can get in Team Fortress 2, one of which was the Villain's Veil. I thought, "Geez, that seems kind of out of place. A little bit spaghetti western. Why in the hell does the Sniper have that?"

Then Shakespearicles broke down my apartment door.

We fought for a bit. He told me that I was a heartless bitch who didn't know romance when it hit me upside the head with a kipper. I told him that Romero and Juliette: A Zombie Love Story was full of crap because the main characters could have prevented their untimely demise if they wouldn't have been so quick to kill themselves in order to spare them from the hoard. (It was actually the government coming in to rescue them, if you didn't know). We went on about romance and tragedy for a while, at least until I came to an epiphany about Othello, another one of his works.

See, I liked Othello. It's a tragedy as well, but it's a tragedy I can understand. While the main character makes hasty and unfortunate decisions, he realizes that he has done this and pays for them with his life. (Also, the bad guy gets nailed in the end anyway. So, kudos to that.) It is a tragedy where the flaws of the character are recognized by the perpetrator. It could have been preventable, yes, but at least the main character had the stones to realize what he did was wrong.

And then, I realized, that made for kind of an interesting idea.

Anyway. Back to work on other things. What did you think?