The inspiration came from the lovely piece of art called Games are over by NerryKirai on deviantArt, who kindly allowed me to build a story around the picture. The setting is slightly shifted from the merry shenanigans of everyone's favorite mercenaries to the more gritty reality of a private war deprived of the many of the in-game mechanisms, especially respawn. Medic and Spy are the only canon characters here.
At 14:25, the BLUs broke the ceasefire.
At 14:26, the guard on the east control point requested backup, which was sent out immediately.
At 14:35, the contact between the defence group and the RED base was lost.
At 14:52, Scout stumbled to the base, exhausted and bleeding, urging everyone present and fit to fight to help the rest of the team.
It was barely twenty minutes ago, but for Demoman and Medic it already felt like hours. Since the previous group took their only remaining vehicle, they were forced to go on foot and no amount of effort they put into this race with time could have changed the fact they were moving too slow.
The force of distant explosions was shaking the ground beneath their feet, making running on the rough terrain the more difficult the closer to the battleground they got. Yet both men considered the continuous fire to be a good sign and prayed for it not to stop; as long as the battle went on, there was still someone who could use their assistance.
Unfortunately, neither this certainty nor growing pressure could fuel Demoman forever, and soon he began to fall behind. He was never built for an excessive running and his advanced age wasn't helping. His weapons felt heavier with each step he made, and the burning pain in his side rendered breathing nearly impossible. He needed a break to catch his breath and to get rid of that pesky black dots dancing in his field of vision.
Even a couple of seconds would have been sufficient, however, it was a couple of seconds he wasn't allowed. Medic refused to show any sympathy for his teammate's fading strength - when he realized Demoman is no longer by his side, he doubled back with an irritated growl and ruthlessly grabbed the other man's shoulder, yanking him forward.
"We don't have time for this! Move! Schnell!"
Despite the hot climate of New Mexico, the impatient shout sent chills down Demoman's spine. During the World War II he served his fair share on the European battlefront and being screamed at in German had a nasty habit of bringing back some unpleasant memories. He shot his companion an angry glare, because he told him so more than once.
Medic didn't even notice, let alone cared. His whole attention was focused on the echoes of the battle which started to lose its pace. It wasn't a good sign and the look on the doctor's face was a proof of that.
"Move, damn you!"
Another rough tug on Demoman's arm almost sent him face-first to the ground. His intestines curled into a tight ball. Not because of an imminent danger they rushed towards to – he was long used to that. It was the shadow of fear in Medic's voice what made Demoman to bite back the pain of his overstrained muscles and to break into the run again.
Gunshots and explosions had grown even more sporadic and soon they died away altogether. Demoman cursed under his breath as Medic abandoned all effort to keep together with him and darted forward. He had no choice but to gather all his remaining strength and pick up the speed, because a dead field medic was the last thing their team needed.
Jagged red rocks surrounding them finally parted, revealing a small cluster of long-abandoned concrete buildings in various stages of destruction. This structure has marked the current border between their own territory and the area controlled by the BLUs, and in the past few weeks it has been a scene of frequent clashes. The continuous streak of bitter failures that enemy team has suffered here must have really got to them if they were willing to risk the punishment for an unauthorized assault. But if what Scout managed to tell them before he lost consciousness was true, their gamble was paying off so far.
Out of breath, Demoman finally caught up with Medic, who pressed himself against the large boulder near the gate in the fence running around the compound and was observing the situation with rifle at ready. His face lacked both expression and healthy colour, jaws clenched and eyes wide. The heart of the greying Canadian dropped when he slid down beside his teammate and peeked over the edge of the boulder.
"Oh, shit..."
The ragged clouds of smoke covering the battleground weren't thick enough to hide the bodies. Mutilated remains of what once were human beings littered small, concrete-paved courtyard mixed with dropped weapons, debris, and a wreckage of several sentries and both of their cars. Blood was everywhere, its intense smell beating even the stench of a gunpowder and leaving a coppery taste in their mouths. Demoman gagged and spat hoping he'll get rid of it, though the sickly-sweet coat kept stuck to his tongue no matter how hard he tried.
Nothing was moving down there, indicating the BLUs haven't left their positions yet. Medic took a wary look around to estimate where they could be hiding. He noticed neither movement nor any sound indicating a persisting presence of the enemy combatants. That was odd. A team not securing the captured control point right away was something unheard-of.
"Where the hell are those fuckers?" Demoman whispered, equally puzzled. "Why'd they vanish without tearing the flag down at least?"
"Maybe they too suffered heavy causalities and rather withdrew? Or perhaps the management ordered them back for violating the agreement?"
"You really think so?"
"It is a possibility," Medic shrugged.
"I say we should wait."
"Well, I can't. Someone may still be alive there. I need to get to them."
Demoman opened his mouth to protest and promptly shut it again when Medic glared at him. Trying to talk him out of his intention would be a waste of breath. There was a stubbornness, and then there was Medic who had a work to do. So instead of arguing, Demoman just sighed. "Okay. But let me go first."
With an utmost caution he sneaked out of the cover, finger on the trigger of his rifle, ready to back up immediately on the slightest sign of an enemy action. Except for there was none. No shooting, no shouting, not even a single rock thrown his way.
He took a few steps to the gate. Still nothing, only silence and the oppressive reek of death.
When Demoman reached the courtyard without encountering any resistance, he motioned Medic to follow him and kept scanning the surroundings, while the doctor hurried past him to the nearest fallen man.
There was a little hope anyone survived the massacre, but it was hope nonetheless and he wasn't willing to give it up just yet. One by one, Medic checked the bodies, all clad in red safe for a charred corpse of the BLU Spy, and with each man pronounced dead beyond all doubts his frustration grew.
The main defence was literally torn to shreds; dismembered limbs and other body parts scattered all around the place in such a mess it was next to impossible to tell which piece belonged to whom. Soldier was lying in the entrance of the nearest building; his intestines sprawled around him in a twisted resemblance of snakes slithering out of the nest. His body was still twitching, and Medic could have sworn he heard him gasp for breath less than a second before he kneeled beside the man, but he was greeted only by the glossy, empty gaze fixed on the ceiling. Medic grated his teeth and tightly squeezed his eyelids before letting out a furious grunt. He then gently closed his comrade's eyes and left the house.
Demoman shot him a questioning look. Medic shook his head and turned away to avoid the demolition expert's face contorted with pain.
He had yet to find Pyro. The little firebug was nowhere to be seen, and the doctor inwardly prayed for at least one team member to escape this carnage. Most of their firepower was gone already and what remained wasn't enough to keep the BLU back for long. It will take days before the reinforcements get here and it was hard to imagine the other team won't take an advantage of the situation to wipe their hated rivals out for good.
A weak moan came from the direction of the large stack of empty crates and old metal containers. Medic snapped out of his gloomy musing and followed the silent groaning, which led him to the small space between two large crates.
Pyro was huddled in the farthest corner, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around his bleeding torso, rocking slowly back and forth. He was mumbling something incoherent, unaware of his surroundings or the man who gingerly touched his shoulder.
"Pyro. Pyro, can you hear me?"
Medic made a mental note the injured mercenary is absolutely unresponsive to both voice and a physical contact, but since none of the bullet holes in the thick fireproof suit indicated any imminently life-threatening wound, he concluded the apathy is most likely the result of a shock and a blood loss. Nothing he couldn't fix. Pyro will live, maybe with a few stitches here and there, but live nonetheless. They will be weakened, sure, yet still able to put up a decent fight till the new forces arrive.
First of all, he needed to drag Pyro out of his hiding spot to treat his wounds. He moved to the injured man's side, threw Pyro's arm over his shoulder and tried to lift him up.
The sudden shriek and violent convulsion that run through the bullet-riddled body started him. His surprise soon turned into consternation, when he spotted a bulk of a slimy dark mass covering the back of Pyro's head that he missed before due to a lack of light. Medic carefully laid his teammate back down to examine him better.
"Mein Gott…" was all he managed to utter.
"What happened?" Demoman blurted. He left his guarding post near the gate upon hearing the scream to check out the situation. There wasn't much to be seen though – only the prone shape of Pyro jerking occasionally with slight spasms and Medic hunched over him with his shoulders stooped. The doctor was breathing heavily, one hand clenched into a fist and pressed against his helmet, muttering for himself in a tone that sounded more like a growling than a human voice.
"Nein! This is unacceptable!"
The outburst was so abrupt Demoman recoiled from him.
"This - this is -… I will not -..."
His voice trailed off and Medic hit the metal side of the container behind his back. His teammate flinched and then sighed. It didn't matter what Medic intended to say, there was nothing he could possibly do. Demoman was no doctor, but he was sure no-one can live with a hole in their skull this big. And with so much brain matter outside the said skull. It was a miracle Pyro lasted this long.
"C'mon, Doc." The older man smiled, although it wasn't an easy task when faced with Medic's silent, impotent rage. "We better -"
The rest of his words was cut off by the heavy machine gun fire. Medic lifted his head just in time to see his comrade being swept with a shower of bullets his flak jacket had no chance to stop.
"Demo!"
The only answer was a mean laughter from the rocks circling the compound, followed by the sound of multiple voices arguing and laughing some more. Medic cursed, jumped to his feet and bolted in the direction of a hole torn in the fence by a stray grenade he noticed earlier. A couple of bullets whizzed past him, but he learned long time ago how to not to get hit easily, much to the displeasure of the enemy team, especially their snipers.
The anger was choking him. Of course this was a trap! Of course the BLUs waited for them to march right into their sights! They just withhold their attack long enough to give their opponents time to find all of the bodies.
Another bullet missed his body so close it tore through his sleeve. Medic snatched his pistol out of its holster and fired a couple of rounds in return. Not that he hoped to actually kill someone – the BLUs were hiding on the other side of the battleground, safely covered with rocks, but anything that would make them back off for a few seconds he needed to squeeze through the fence was sufficient at the moment.
Once outside, Medic began to regret he forgot his rifle by the Pyro's body. His old P38, no matter how good and reliable, wasn't a decent match for weapons of the BLUs' assault force and even when he had no desire to engage in a direct combat, he would have felt a little bit better with something more powerful in his hands. His regret was, however, very short-lived. He barely registered the massive man in a blue uniform who suddenly jumped from behind the rock and struck him with the butt of his shotgun.