( Author's note: First off, I'd like to thank my beta reader- D.F. 38- for helping me make this make sense. I'd also like to thank my perennial moral support for being supportive, and offering a second second opinion, even though we both know a lot of ours are pretty similar.
There were several inspirations for this story. As far as the environments and settings are concerned, I mostly drew from my experiences during a week-long vacation in the tiny nation of Grenada. I'm not a wealthy person, so it was probably the first and last time I'll ever visit the Caribbean, and let me tell you that for an inhabitant of the Great White North, waking up on a January morning to a warm breeze and the sound of birds is like finding yourself in a dream. In the experiences that some of the team have over the course of their adventure, most of which takes place on an unnamed Caribbean island, I hope to share some of that dreamlike atmosphere with you.
Important note: This is technically a continuation of my last fanfic, "Put a Spell on You". I wouldn't say reading that story is 100% necessary for understanding this one, but the character dynamic here is a continuation of relationships and scenarios depicted in "Put a Spell on You". So to clarify: the main plot of this story is not a continuation of any previous story. The friendships, rivalries, and some incidents mentioned in relation to them are related to things described in "Put a Spell on You". I may add to this story at some future date to clarify these things.
Additional note/warning/hook for people who are into such things: The main focus of this story is not Gay Romance/Slash, but there are references to it and scenes involving it, so if you hate that stuff, consider yourself warned. )
In the hour before dawn, Tavish DeGroot found himself seized by a strange sense of foreboding. His drinking habits had left him no stranger to weird and irrational impulses, but as he stared up from his bed and watched the room become gradually lighter, he felt certain that this had nothing to do with cheap liquor. There was a bottle on the nightstand which seemed to beckon to him, and he frowned, reaching for it one moment, lowering his hand the next. He didn't drink to calm his nerves. This situation called for cigarettes.
Still unsure what was nagging him, the RED Demoman wandered up to the ramparts and smoked while the day crept ever closer. The crew he worked with was shipping out in a few hours for God-knows-where, but traveling had never made him nervous. Nor had new places, new missions, or a lot of other potentially dangerous things. (This has happened before, hasn't it?) he thought, still frowning. He didn't understand it the last time, either; it was just a chill that seemed to gnaw at the very core of his being, nothing clearer than that. With a weary sigh, he flicked his cigarette butt away and rubbed his good eye. The sense of anxiety would fade, soon. It always had before.
While Tavish was brooding, another Demoman was cursing the sun, which had already risen on the distant island where he had been stationed not long ago. The rainforest was pissing wet at any hour, but he'd had an easier time keeping hidden during the night. Now it was hot, and his pursuer would be even harder to dodge.
"Th' heat is bleedin' unbearable," he muttered, tugging at the collar of his jumpsuit. It was probably still red beneath his armor, but every inch of the fabric that he could see had been plastered with foliage or mud. It hadn't been his intent when he set out into the jungle, but in retrospect, a clean uniform would have made him much more obvious. (It won't help you now, lad, you're losing this chase.)
A moment later, the Demoman grinned ruefully. (no, fuck that. It's not over until someone's been blasted to bits. If it's going to be you, you'd better go down fighting... Give the bastards something to remember you by.) He had run out of fragmentation grenades a few hours ago, and had no chance of restocking now. But there were still some sticky bombs left in his launcher. These would have to count, if he wanted to make it out alive.
He wondered who he was trying to fool with that thought, then pushed it aside. It was time to work. The sound of something crashing through the undergrowth caught his attention, and for a moment, he found himself hoping it was an animal- but the only large predators here were the two-legged kind, and the Demoman knew this one wouldn't fall into any of the traps that were already laid along the path. After all, they had set them together. "oh, you're in for a surprise," he hissed, and planted two of the stickies under a nearby bush. Knowing the places his pursuer would avoid, the Scotsman placed more bombs carefully, backing his way down the partly overgrown trail.
"you are dead, you treacherous son of a bitch! You just don't know it yet!"
The Demoman grimaced at the barking voice that could be heard through the trees. Sound helped him gauge the distance between them, though; when the crashing footsteps seemed near enough, he set off the first trap, and was rewarded with a ragged yelp of pain. Resisting the urge to taunt the enemy, he bided his time until the crashing and shouting resumed, and triggered the next clump of explosives as the noise grew closer. He could see the other mercenary now, staggering from the injuries he had just inflicted, but still on the approach.
(That was too soon. Shit! Maybe you'd be better off moving up on him. Luring him in. Then you can end this for good.) There was a time when he wouldn't have hesitated to blow himself up if he could take someone with him, but it wasn't an option anymore. Not a good one. Instead, he held stock still and watched the Soldier, who was moving a lot more slowly than before. The dense foliage obscured his view, but he was crossing his fingers, hoping the other man would just bleed out and die.
He only realized what was really happening when it was too late to do much about it. A brief glimpse of the Soldier's eyes gave it away; the man had spotted the last pair of sticky bombs, and was pulling out his rocket launcher to destroy them. Feeling suddenly and terribly unsure just how close the explosion would be, the Demoman steeled himself, then turned and sprinted.
A guttering explosion shook the trees behind him as he ran. He mentally prepared himself for the possibility the Soldier was still alive, but in the quiet that followed, it seemed the rocket might have finished that crazy bastard off. When he spotted an overgrown building ahead, the Demoman suddenly felt a spark of hope in his chest- this was one they had refurbished for storage, and there was a chance he might find ammunition inside. (Or something to drink. Even a tepid canteen of water would be good right now.)
The shed was disappointingly barren, aside from some smashed crates. He kicked a jagged board angrily, then sighed, cradling his empty sticky-launcher. (Still, it's been quiet out there a while. Maybe you've caught a break after all. When you're bloody sure you're up to it, you can sneak back to the base and finish off that little backstabber. Then... then, this fucking tropical death-trap won't see your backside for dust.)
He had just finished that thought when-Crack! A shotgun startled him, and sprayed his occipital lobe across the ceiling. The Soldier watched as he toppled to his knees, then fell face-down on the floor. As his body started to cool, the other man crouched at his side and continued glaring at him.
Grabbing a handful of the dead man's sleeve, the Soldier drew a buck knife from his pocket and snapped it open, then hacked off his team-mate's insignia. When he spoke again, his voice was low and tinged with regret. "I didn't want it to come to this, private, but you left me no choice. TRYING TO CONTACT THE COMPANY? You KNEW what the stakes were, WHEN WE STARTED THIS OPERATION! AND NOW..!"
Scowling, he rose to his feet and heaved a sigh, then turned away from the corpse and began to leave. "...now, we're one man shorter. You're a disgrace to this unit, you bastard..." He studied at the emblem in his hand for a long moment, rubbing the disappointment from his eyes. Then he tossed the scrap of fabric on the ground, and slowly walked away.