Oooookay, so here's the deal; I originally had this all planned out to be released on Halloween but because I am a piece of shit, I didn't finish it until the day after. And then I had some good friends of mine beta for me and here we are. Happy Halloween and sorry for the huge-ass delay I guess?
It was closer than it was yesterday.
Under the burning October sun it stood, propped up knee-deep in an autumnal sea of dying corn just… existing.
And Sniper could swear on the bones of every hideous, mutated wild animal he had ever hunted that sometime during the night that bloody scarecrow had gotten closer.
The rational side of his mind reasoned that it was just another one of Scout's stupid pranks. It was, after all, his idea to make a scarecrow out of the RED Spy's suit which he had pilfered on a whim during battle. It hadn't really done a good job keeping the crows away, if the fruitless brown stalks and its now tattered shoulders were anything to go by, so the kid must have been using it for kicks, now. It'd explain why he always looked so tired in the morning. Sniper grumbled something incoherent to himself and moved to the other side of the roof to face the empty battlefield.
However, even with it out of sight, the Australian felt as if the scarecrow- or "spycrow", as Scout insisted everyone call it- was watching him with its black, beady button eyes. Every dry wind sent rustling through the cornfield had Sniper craning his neck to make sure the spyc- scarecrow was staying put.
"Creepy old bugger…" Sniper muttered under his breath as he climbed into the second-story window of the farmhouse his team was stationed at. One perk about being a BLU was that their bases were generally better equipped than the RED team's, but it seemed that this time around the only thing setting the two farmhouses apart were walls made of either flimsy old metal or flimsy old wood.
Either way, as soon as it was nighttime, it became one hell of a miserable experience.
The creaking of Sniper's boots upon the wooden floor were drowned out by a sudden shout and the sound of a stack of something toppling over. He followed the sound downstairs into the living room where Pyro and Demoman were. Demoman had fallen over a pile of wooden planks of varying shapes, a slick black splotch staining his vest and shirt.
Pyro chuckled as he stuck his glove back into a canister of black paint and flung some at the fallen explosives expert. His own suit sported similar spots of paint. To the side of the fireplace, a few wooden gravestones leaned against the wall, painted phrases like "R.I.P GUARD DOG" and so on running slightly as they dried.
"Halloween decorations?" Sniper asked.
"Pyro 'n I figured this miserable little shack could use somethin' to keep everyone's spirits up," Demoman staggered as he stood up, keeping one hand on the mantle of the fireplace and another close to his alcohol. A day off spent sober was a day off wasted.
Sniper hunched over, hands in his pockets as he looked at the mock tombstones.
"Zepheniah Mann, huh?"
"The grumpy ol' coot who owned all this land in the first place, god rest his soul," Demoman said, rearranging the blank planks he had tripped over and then knocking on the wooden mantle for superstition's sake. When Sniper's back was turned he cast a look at Pyro, who held the paint behind his back innocently and motioned.
"Gotta thank the bloke fer one thing; our payche- AGHH!" Sniper all but squawked as the remaining black paint was haphazardly dumped on him, Sniper snatched the emptied canister and swatted at the Pyro with the last of the paint clinging to the inside before Demoman caught him in a headlock from behind, smearing what paint on his person that hadn't already dried on the sharpshooter, "You bloody bastards!"
The sun was low on the horizon, just barely dipping behind the endless expanse of thirsty farmland when Sniper stepped out of the bathhouse. For whatever reason, BLU was benevolent enough to have fully functional showers and latrines built to accommodate the team, but not so much as to have them built into the main house or renovate said house so that it was no longer the equivalent to camping out in a barn. Hell, even glass on the windows would have been a huge improvement.
A chill wind was beginning to pick up in preparation for the cold, clear night that was sure to follow the vibrant orange and vermillion sunset. Sniper stretched and scratched at the largest paint stain left on his vest. It had dried while he showered all the paint that had gotten all over his neck and back. He could get a spare from his van later, but he ought to stay game just in case anyone else wanted to start some seasonal shenanigans.
The Australian opened his mouth to yawn when a distant, muffled crunch put him on guard. The marksman shielded his eyes from the light of the sinking sun and peered at the farmhouse where the rest of the BLU team had assembled for an early dinner of tomato soup. The crunch had come from the far side of the farmhouse.
Where the corn field was.
Sniper began to approach the side slowly, fingering his SMG in its holster. Peering around the corner, his breath caught in his throat.
The spycrow was gone.
The breeze whistling through the corn buzzed in his ears and his heartbeat pulsated through his bones as he stared dumbly at the space the spycrow was supposed to occupy. It had to be some kind of joke. It had to be, yet Sniper felt almost terrified. All reason seemed to be lost when those soulless black buttons came to mind.
As if he was on auto-pilot, Sniper stepped over the wooden fence and began to walk through the field, boots dragging in the dirt. The dying stalks felt itchy as they brushed against his arms. He scratched them absentmindedly and pushed on. The further Sniper advanced into the corn, the more he wondered if he had somehow gotten himself lost or not. He was tall, but the unkempt crops surrounding him gave him a run for his money. He could hardly see over their tips. Someone like Engineer could go in here and never be seen again. Sniper was about to snicker at the thought but stopped short when he noticed a familiar black glove on the ground.
The spycrow had simply fallen over.
Sniper wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disturbed by it as he was per usual. It was a lot more lifelike than he remembered it to be. Where did Scout even learn to sew like this?
"Might as well fix it," Sniper bent over and picked the spycrow up by the wooden post it was fastened to and, with a grunt, shoved it back into the ground. He then piled dirt around it in a mound to keep it in place with his shoe. "That ought ta do it."
No sooner did he speak did hands clamp down on his shoulders out of the blue.
"BOO!"
"BLOODY FUCK!" Sniper exclaimed, jolting out of his assailant's grasp and into the spycrow, toppling it back over with another crunch.
"My god, lad, I really got ya this time aroond!"the Demoman laughed, hands on his knees. Sniper scowled.
"Yeah, yeah, you got me alroight. Gimme a hand, will ya?"
"Sure, mate," Demoman offered his hand to the Sniper and helped him up with he took it.
"How'd ya know I wos out here?" the Australian asked, dusting his jeans off.
"Never seen an ear o' corn wear an akubra before."
"Fair 'nough," Sniper turned around to correct the spycrow once more.
"Ya went all the way oot here ta fix that thing?"
"Somebody ought ta. I personally can't stand not bein' able to see where it is."
"Then ye should put a sack o'er its head. If nothin' else, those eyes are bleedin' unsettlin'."
"Ya think so too?"
"Can't think o' a man on th' team who doesn't."
Sniper looked at the now upright spycrow.
"Wot was Scout thinkin' when he made this thing?" he asked.
"Scoot thinks?" Demoman asked, faking surprise. The two mercenaries laughed at the runner's expense and began to make their way back to the farmhouse through the corn.
In the distance, a murder of crows cawed forlornly.