A/N: Well, I'm nervous. This is my first story in english, as well my first TF2 fanfic. I'm not a native english speaker, so I apologize for any wrong sentences and errors in the chapter... I'm basically doing it for pleasure, and I hope I'll finish it one day, either in french or english. A big thanks to Govnuh for checking the chapter and correcting most of the errors. Just leave me a review to tell me what do you think, if my story is good or bad, if I should change something... Give me some constructive reviews! The first chapter was a bit long, so i cut it in two. publish it in the same time, though.

Rated M, because of the language (scout's fault), violence (everyone's fault) and, but later, some allusions to drugs (hallicinations). I'll try to do my best to respect the temper of the mercenaries as well. The first chapters will mostly consist to introduce my OC to the band and place the story with the first plots.

I don't own Team Fortress, Vavle's owning it. I only own my characters. Enjoy !

Chapter one: Shadow and prey

Headshot.

A straight bullet perforated a distracted BLU's head, surely sending him to the respawn room. The Sniper, wearing the Reliable Excavation Demolition armorial bearings, smiled. Since the mission started, thirteen bullets were fired, and thirteen BLUs were killed. And he was more pleased since every shot ended in the head.

His sight was like one of the Administrator's thousands of cameras: he was seeing everything, any movement or facial expression through his scope, any details or men. And if a foe was inattentive, he was headshot, and out from the action. As well, Teufort was an advantage itself for their war: their red uniforms merged with the red desert sand, while the Builders League United team was even more apparent. But even with that, they were a little late, and the BLUs were taking over them.

The mission started fifteen minutes ago, each mercenary killing themselves to master the control point. Time was running, each team trying to dominate the other. The REDs were maybe not as advanced as their rivals, but they became more tricky and reckless by time. And even if Sniper wasn't as lethal as a Heavy or an Engineer at the front line, his distant work was at least as much important than theirs.

Though the scope, he surveyed his favorite hunting territory. It was as deserted as the dry canyons around them since he managed to kill the adverse sniper, who probably chose a different spot to strike, like his fellow the Spy, whose Sniper slaughtered him with his kukri. He was only waiting for an enemy to be careless enough to come across his rifle, hidden in his raised shed. Unless somebody discovered his hideout and he had to leave, it was the perfect spot for him: he was invisible from all eyes, almost undetectable. The bushman took another swallow from his coffee, before returning to his main occupation. #1 Sniper was printed on the white cup. Coffee was his greatest friend, taking away all exhaustion or boredom from his thoughts.

Few minutes passed. He managed to take down a Scout and a Medic, who were dangerously coming closer to the point. The mission was almost over, and, for once, they were going toward the victory.

Suddenly, he saw something. A shadow, between a crate and a wall, hidden in the darkness. A profile, taking shape in the half light, a sort of vague silhouette camouflaged in the landscape. The Aussie concentrated, giving his entire attention to this thing, waiting with patience. He thought that it was a brief hallucination, due to the large amount of caffeine in his blood, until it moved. It made a soft jump to get in the base, without any fear of the echoes of bullets and screams. The shadow cautiously scurried, making sure it was off any looks. Then, it went out the twilight. The bushman was even more surprised when he saw the man who was under the cloak of shadows.

He was wearing some kind of tanned mantle, dissimulating his weight, the color of his skin, giving confusion regarding to his size. A large hood covered his head, and again, any sign of distinction, like his hair or its length. It was more strange since the intruder was wearing a red scarf to hide his face, with weird goggles, looking like Engineer's protective glasses. He couldn't see a piece of his body. With light, flexible steps, he ran to the BLU Sniper's shack, raised with concrete pillions. Even if the outsider was heavily equipped, he moved without trouble, with speed in the red, arid dust of the desert, concealing himself in silence and discretion. Sniper reloaded his gun, in a mechanical motion, and once again, stared into the scope. He was waiting, watching the area. Sniper's finger was shaking upon the trigger, preparing himself to shot him in the head, until he swore in surprise.

Through the binocular, he saw him stretching, ready to climb the pillar next to him, to reach the shack. He kept looking for a support, touching the concrete columns to find them. "Freaking spook... What the bloody hell!" Sniper told to himself, while observing the stranger. He started his ascension, climbing with ease the concrete structure, with smooth and experienced moves. He could only contemplate the outsider with his confused blue eyes. The skilled, frenetic speed of his movements, and his stealth, were almost fascinating. A violent explosion distracted him, making him turn his end while he was almost at the end of the climb. While he was looking to the smoke raising to the sky, Sniper narrowed his eyes. An object was exceeding his cloak, a long, extended cylinder shape. "Bloody hell!" Those shapes were those of a weapon, similar to his.

Before the Australian could do anything to stop him, the man broke the only window of the shack, on top of his head, by a skilled jump. And before Sniper could keep him in aim, he disappeared into the hideout, without any other member of the RED team noticing. The intruder was here to kill.

…

Getting inside the raised shack was easy. It only took me patience, especially to wait for the mercenaries to naturally move on. And, as it was agreed, no one saw me, or even doubted of my presence in the base. I was suffocating under my mantle, but, at least, it was giving me one of the best disguise to fuse into the desert. Earlier, I saw this refuge when I was scouting the territory, and immediately manage to get in there. It was ridiculously simple: my trainings in the canyons of the south were much harder. I just had to break a window, and I was in.

Before making any movement, I examined the inside with an attentive look, right after my refraction. It was as I imagined it: dusty, poorly lit, only accessible by metallic stairs on the floor. The room had a musty, old smell in it; was as hot as the outside. Very little sunshine could filter through the barricades on the opposite wall, and gave a perfect spot to any sniper to shoot, without any agitation, and protection. The only opening, now nailed by worn planks, was upon the entire battlefield, letting the hot wind get in. I fainted a smile. There was some wooden crates left on the floor revealed, as I thought, that this was a sniper hideaway: and it was all I needed to let my M21 look for my target. I took a seat on one of the case, observing the various objects placed on them. An empty chips bag was crackling at the blows of the wind, a cold coffee pot was placed on a crate, beside a white cup. Some unused ammo was lying on the floor.

Screams and fired bullets were disturbing the usual silence. I took a long and deep breath, since my respiration was more difficult with my scarf on my face. I pulled out my rifle from my mantle with care, with my gloved hands, positioning it between two planks. Before getting to work, I took a quick swallow to the coffee pot next to me. I almost puked when I swallowed it: the taste was horrible, besides the tepid warmth of the mixture. I put it back where it was, definitely disgusted, and set myself back to my work. I dropped my eyes through the scope, testing the ground as I reloaded the black gun. I waited, just gazing at the battlefield, until my target came up to the light. I was going to kill another man, a total stranger to me. What will he be thinking when I shoot him? What was his past? Was he married, or did he have kids? He just signed his death when I accepted the death contract. And he couldn't escape me, I was too professional and experienced to miss him. What had he done, yet, to attract the Reaper? Wanted to steal some kind of information in a briefcase, or something? And, for last, I had to sit for 37 hours straight to get in this bloody city.

I swiped off those thoughts in my mind. I was going to get paid for this kill, like I always did, and like I was going to do, without any remorse. So, I waited, as the cold blooded killer I was.

I saw a tall, big bald man explode from a rocket. My eyes narrowed. I was almost sure I saw him, and another guy, being burnt to death few minutes ago... But I wasn't allowed to pay attention to those things. I had to concentrate. I have always had the nerves for this: to wait, be patient, analyze... I knew I had to use it to survive into this wide and cruel world. And I was right: I was more light and vivacious then others, I had fluidity in my steps and smoothness in my moves... all sort of habits, tiny qualities way too strange for most of the folks that made me climb on the top of domination on men.

Something caught my attention. An outline was managing to leave the base, easily going through the battlefield without a sign. Just a like a shadow. Was he my target, trying to escape the sight of my rifle? The young woman informed me of the danger: I had to kill him, at any cost, before he took me off. But, even if I was engaged to eliminate someone, I had to be careful: I hadn't the right to warn the mercenaries, who were not aware of my actions. And even if I failed without any blue or red guy dead, it will be the old rag who will chase me. So, I tried to grin and bear it, until I could recognize the man, and just shot him.

He constantly was trying to walk along the buildings facade, stay in his refuge of shadows. He quickly arrived to a cul-de-sac, and, after a short moment of reflection, he realized he was obliged to get into the light. My innate senses were exciting. The few seconds separating me to the truth were unbearable. Unwillingly, he stepped out of the dark to search for another way to escape, below the blazing sun. He was, at my biggest surprise, at the opposite from me: wearing very light clothes, a black suit along a black scarf, covering his face as well as me, with 50' felt hat: I recognized him instantly. He was, just like I was, hiding from the others. But the most important detail was the bright blue suitcase in his hands. My pulse raced, the finger on my M21's trigger shivered. It was was indeed him, the target I managed to pursue, in almost an animal psyche.

Before I could even take my aim, or hold my breath to succeed my shot, a grinding resonated in between the walls of the shack. A suspicion took possession of my crazy mind. I felt a presence, someone keeping an eye on me, waiting for any breach, in the death angle of my sight. I grabbed my attention out from the unhoped moment, swearing inwardly.

The silence returned.

In the greatest immobility, my muscles tensed. I carefully listened to any noise. My hearing alerted me from a possible danger, and the old, crispy planks cannot lie. I slowly turned my head, imitating a normal stretch. My eyes surveyed the room: there were only shadows, dancing on the walls, avoiding the blinding sun.
I heard another grinding, much longer than the first one. And, before I could lay my eyes on what was concealed in the darkness, I was caught in the lion's den.