The sixth wave of robots are here, he writes.
The cooing of a dove breaks his train of thought, the only sound besides the faint guitar melody drifting through shattered windows, and he looks up from his journal. Two beady black eyes stare back at him. Archimedes.
He had taken in the dove after his RED counterpart had fallen two waves ago – is it strange, he wonders, that I measure time in battles now? – and it had not made a sound since. The bird had remained silent through his careful washing of caked blood and grime from its feathers, stayed silent as he went off to battle, stayed silent as he wrote long and rambling journals that would be the only marker of their battles once they had fallen.
And they would fall; there were only six of them left, and five more carrier tanks waiting on the horizon.
"What's wrong?" he murmurs, setting down his pen.
The bird only flicks its wings and ruffles pristine feathers, settling down on its perch atop his lamp. After a few moments, he returns to writing.
Each wave has been more difficult than the last. The previous battle brought us face-to-face with massive demomen, spraying grenades as if they were bullets. The BLU pyro took it upon himself (herself?) to protect the BLU engineer and his buildings, but one can only juggle grenades for so long.
Two more men were lost that day.
He lifts his pen for a moment of silent remembrance. The faint melody drifting through the air stops abruptly.
When he begins writing again, it is with a frantic urgency.
I do not know what today will bring, but it will be a greater challenge than any other. Five carrier tanks still rest on the horizon, turned powdered white by the snow, and with only six of us remaining, hope is little more than a fanciful dream. I fear
He presses the point of the fountain pen deep into the paper, free hand clenching itself into a fist. Ink pools into an ugly splotch, and he crosses out the last two words with quick, slashing movements.
Archimedes flutters to his shoulder and coos softly, putting its head against his jaw. His fisted right hand uncurls by increments until he has enough control over himself to offer the bird a perch on his fingers. The dove's claws dig into the thick latex of his surgical gloves.
The crunch of heavy footsteps in snow calls him to battle, but he ignores it in favor of finishing his journal. His hand only shakes slightly as he writes.
I fear I may not return.
His pen hovers for long seconds, as if he is debating whether to commit the final line to paper.
To my wife in Stuttgart: I love you, and I am sorry.
With that, he closes the journal – the dull thump has a note of finality to it, and he wonders if maybe he should have left it open, because closing it feels too much like writing the end – and stands. At the edge of his eye, he catches the reds and blues of his comrades passing by the window.
"Be good," he whispers to Archimedes, giving the bird a brief pet before setting it on its perch.
Then, syringe gun in hand, he walks out into the snow.