I had rewritten this portion of Ch1 to coincide with things said earlier by the Medic, but I didn't save before uploading the story before, so here is my revised Scout/Medic interaction. Also, to clarify, Spectre doesn't come from any other media. I heard the name in Big Fish, and thought it would be a good name of a mysterious fortress. In the canon of this story, Spectre is a mysterious company, similar to RED and BLU. At this point in the story, you don't need to know any more than the characters have stated. Thank you for the reviews and critiques, they really push me to continue this story (my first multi-chapter story on the site). By the way, is there any way to upload a document without getting rid of all the indents?
"Vhat about you, child?" The Medic demanded, turning his sights on the Scout. The boy glanced uncomfortably at the fire, and then back at the Medic. Finally, he glared. "I thought that 'in the medical field, there was no room for compassion.' " He spat, and walked away.
"Bah! Schweine!" The Medic called to anyone who would listen, ignoring his hunger pangs as he stared at the fire, and thought about his situation.
The Scout was violently awoken to a swift kick in the ribs. He groaned, opening his eyes, and was immediately blinded by the hot sunlight beating down on him.
"Wake up, son." The Engineer ordered. "Soldier's moving out."
The Scout rose stiffly to a seated position, collecting his weapons. "What time is it?"
"Damned if I know."
"Judging by the sun, I'd say 7 AM." The Sniper replied from where he lay beside Scout. His voice was muffled by the hat covering his face.
The Engineer clasped the Scout's outstretched hand, and pulled him to his feet. "I didn't even know you were awake," He said to the Sniper.
"I'm awake, all right." The Sniper replied, lifting his hat off his face and rising to a seated position. "Got up at dawn, and crafted those," He gestured to a bow, and a simple quiver of arrows.
The Scout zipped up the ball bag slung over his shoulder, which contained his aluminum bat. He then proceeded to count the shells in his shotgun, and check the magazines for his pistol. He was always equipped lightly, and had only four magazines at his disposal. Likewise, he carried only a few cases of shells.
The Demoman was sitting with his back to the forest. He was loading a grenade into his launcher, replacing the one that he had used to kill the previous night's dinner. Nearby, the Medic was still crouched next to the Heavy. He had shucked off his lab coat, which he had been using as a pillow the previous night.
The Soldier emerged from the forest, shotgun in hand, shoving rudely past the Demoman. The latter grumbled something begrudgingly as he snapped the wheel of the grenade launcher shut.
"Good morning, MAGGOTS!" He shouted. "Are you ladies ready to move out?"
The Engineer picked up his toolkit as everyone else gathered their things. He looked over at the Medic. "You sure you don't want to reconsider staying behind, Doc?"
"Go," The Medic replied coldly. "But, vhen your hour is darkest, ve von't be there to save you."
The Engineer shuddered under the Medic's withering glare. Regaining his composure, he rested his wrench on his right shoulder. The others had fallen into single file, and were heading into the woods. All of them, with the exception of the Soldier, averted their gaze from the Medic as they walked past.
The jungle was hot, and the air was damp and humid on their skin.
"It's bloody hot!" The Demoman lamented. The Scout voiced his agreement.
"This is nothin', mates." The Sniper replied. "Back home, the sun was liable to kill you if you didn't hydrate at least once every hour!"
"Complaining is for sissy maggots!" The Soldier called back from his position at the front of the line, although in his trench coat he was surely the hottest of them all. The Sniper, behind him, fell quiet.
The Scout, who was third in file, piped up, "Yo, Snipes, what'd you do in the Outback, before you joined RED?"
"Big game huntin', mate." The Sniper replied. "I would spend days on the desert, with nothing but my pack, my rifle, and the clothes on my back, in heat that would make the Dustbowl look like a winter vacation!"
"Huh," The Scout mused, falling silent for a minute.
"How did you come around to becoming an assassin?" The Engineer asked.
The Sniper turned his head, and the Engineer met his eyes through his shades. "I could tell you it was all for the money, mate, but that would be a lie. It's the challenge that drew me in. There is no feeling better than that of outsmarting a dangerous quarry, and there is no target more dangerous, more unpredictable, than a human being."
The Scout visibly shuddered at this. The Sniper turned back around. "I remember my first kill – everybody does. It was an American businessman, on a hunting trip in the badlands of Australia. He'd ticked off the wrong people, and his head was going for a generous price – not a bad wage for a first-time killer. He was chasing a herd of Wildebeest in a Jeep, and I was following him in my van, keeping out of sight at all times, throwing a tarp over my rig every night so he wouldn't see the reflection. One night, he stopped down in a valley, beneath a high hill – it was the perfect opportunity. After six days of pursuit, I unpacked my sniper rifle and got him in my sights and... BOOM!" The Sniper punched his right fist into his left hand. "Headshot."
They walked in silence for awhile, as everyone mulled over their own thoughts. The Sniper quickened his pace, so that he was standing beside the Soldier.
"What do you want?" The Soldier demanded, not breaking his pace.
"I was just making sure you know where we're going," The Sniper whispered. "I'd wager we've been walking for about a half hour, in a straight line, with no visible rhyme or reason as to why we are doing so."
"What are you saying, maggot?" The Soldier asked, almost at a shouting level. The Sniper stopped, suddenly, causing everybody else in the line to stop, including the Soldier.
"Be right back." The Sniper told everybody, leaning his bow against a large, tall tree, and then proceeding to climb the tree. The other four mercenaries gathered together in a cluster beneath the base of the enormous trunk, watching him as he nimbly shimmied up the branches.
It took only minutes for the Sniper to reach the top. "WE SHOULD BE TRAVELLING IN THAT DIRECTION!" He called down to the others, pointing about sixty degrees to the right. "I SEE SOME KIND OF A CLEARING OVER THERE! IT COULD BE SOME FORM OF CIVILIZATION!"
The Sniper shimmied back down the tree, and the group started walking again, in silence. They walked for about fifteen minutes. Then the Scout asked, "What about you, Demoman?"
"I'm too sober for this," The Demo grumbled.
Four hours passed. The Scout was trudging along, utterly exhausted, in a semi-conscious daze. He had taken his shirt off, and put it in his bag. The Demoman was grumbling, his grenade launcher nearly dragging on the ground. The Engineer was shuffling his feet. He, too, had taken off his red shirt, so that he only wore a sweat-stained undershirt. He had removed his hardhat, as well. Both of these items were inside his tool box. His arm felt like it was going to fall off.
For the second time since they started, the Sniper quickened his pace. "We need to stop." He said to the Soldier. "The others are getting tired!"
"Tell them to stop being sissy ladies!" The Soldier shouted. "I'd rather storm Spectre alone than with a bunch of females!"
"Look, mate, it's hot, it's humid, and some of these boys are going to die of heat stroke if we don't take a break!"
The Soldier didn't reply, or break pace. The Sniper, on the other hand, stopped in his tracks. "Go ahead if you want to, wanker! We'll be here if you decide to come to your senses!"
The Soldier disappeared into the bushes.
"We... we aren't walking anymore?" The Scout panted.
The Engineer dropped the toolbox on the ground, and then collapsed against a tree trunk. "Whew!" He breathed, rubbing his head with his gloved hand.
The Scout let out a loud sigh as he fell on his back in the dirt. The Demoman leaned against a tree, dropping his grenade launcher beside him. The Sniper looked around at all of them, and then sat down on a fallen tree trunk.
The Demoman was panting heavily, gasping for breath. "I'll give that... bloody windbag... ten minutes... before he comes back!"
"Five." The Engineer replied with a heave. "No more than five."
"That man's a bloody robot!" The Sniper said to them. "He'll walk until the sun fries his brains, and even then he will keep moving." He snorted. "Too bad that man doesn't know a damn thing about stellar navigation – or any other kind of navigation, for that matter."
"I hate that bloody man!" The Demoman muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"I heard you guys have some history," The Engineer replied. "Weren't you two good friends at one point?"
"Yar, we were." The Demoman nodded, pulling a whiskey bottle filled with water from his belt, and taking a swill. He blanched at the taste. "Until that bloody traitor sold me out and tried to kill me for a pair of goddamn boots!"
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
All four men immediately turned to the sound of the Soldier's frantic cry. The Sniper pulled his kukri out, and charged into the bushes. The Engineer and Scout locked eyes, and then both men jumped to their feet and ran blindly after him. The Demoman cursed, dropping his bottle and picking up his grenade launcher, and then followed.
He blundered through the trees, trying not to lose sight of the others. Since the Sniper was too far ahead, and both the Engi and the Scout had taken their shirts off, there were no distinctive red uniforms to identify the people in front of him. He merely ran, blindly, while trees whipped at his face, and he stumbled over roots.
Just when he thought he had lost the others, the Demoman burst out of the bushes and into a clearing. He stumbled, and pinwheeled his arms as he tried to regain his balance. He pushed through the Engineer and the Scout, but neither of them seemed to notice. By the time he regained his balance, he was right between the Sniper and the Soldier. He looked at both of them. They were gaping, awestruck, at something in front of them.
"Wot the bloody 'ell are you looking..." The Demoman turned his head forward. "... at." They were standing in front of a massive, downed plane, or rather the front half of one.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph." The Engineer could be heard saying.
The Engineer walked around the perimeter of the plane, reading the writing on the side. "-League United." He read the broken logo aloud. "This is a BLU plane!" He whirled around to face the other three. "How the hell did they know about this place?"
"Looks like they had as much luck as we did." The Sniper muttered, walking up to a bloody corpse that was lying beneath the plane's one remaining wing. It was clearly the body of a Soldier, although the head was smashed to a pulp under his helmet.
"We got a survivor, here!" The Scout called, and the other four turned to face him. His previous fatigue forgotten, he was climbing into the plane, which was on a sideways angle as it leaned on its one wing. He used the chair backs to keep himself upright.
The lone survivor sat in the cockpit, his back up against the control panel. He was wearing a loose, blue shirt, and a baseball cap. An earphone and headset lay on the ground beside him. He was a BLU Scout.
Tony, the RED Scout, knelt down next to this man. Both Scouts were the same age, and looked similar. The BLU Scout was probably out of his neighbourhood.
"Water," BLU Scout croaked.
"Sorry, bruddah, I don't have any." Tony replied. "What the hell happened here?"
"There were... three survivors." BLU Scout croaked. "Me, and... and hardhat, and... and the shapeshifter. Hardhat said it was a missile that took us down... surface to air. Spy said... He said he'd go find some help... that freakin' traitor! That was three days ago!" The Scout spat, and blood came out. He coughed.
Suddenly, the Engineer was beside Tony, shaking the BLU Scout by the shoulder. "Where are we, son? Is Spectre on this island?"
The BLU Scout gazed up at the RED Engineer with a mixed look of pity and impatience. "We're on the right island, alright. They... they took Hardhat. He fought back, but we lost our weapons in the fall!" The Scout grinned humourlessly. "Everything was in the back half of the freaking plane, and we lost it all! Hardhat was overrun, and they dragged him away! They left me, but not without wrecking my legs!"
Tony and the Engineer looked down at BLU Scout's legs. The pant legs were torn open, and the skin on his legs was torn away down to the bone, as if they were eaten.
"Imagine it. A Scout with no legs." BLU Scout shook his head, still grinning. "I can hear the Announcer in my head. We failed." He grabbed Tony's bare shoulders suddenly, his eyes wide and maniacal. "WE FAILED THE MISSION! WE FAILED! WE-" The boy jerked spasmodically, and then his head sagged. His arms released Tony's shoulders. The RED Scout stepped back.
The Engineer checked his pulse. "He's dead." He confirmed.
"What did he say?" The Sniper called up to the pair. The Engineer and the RED Scout climbed back down.
"He said we aren't alone on this island," The Engineer replied as he touched back down on solid ground. "Something attacked the survivors."
"What do you mean, 'something'? One of the guards?" The Soldier asked.
"I don't know," The Engineer shook his head. "But I'm going to go back and get my toolbox. I'd prefer it if a sentry was watching us, tonight. And if you don't mind, Scout, I want a weapon."
The Scout hesitated, and then he reached into his holster and pulled out his pistol.
"Thanks, son." The Engineer said with a nod, and then he walked into the woods.
Even before he opens his eyes, he knows that he's in pain – more pain than normal. He inhales, and each rasping breath feels like daggers in his lungs. With every inhalation, his head becomes a little clearer. He can feel the wind on his face, and in his hair, and he suddenly realizes that he is exposed. He has lost his helmet, and that is why it hurts to breathe.
His eyes open – he is on a beach. It is night, and it is a starry sky, and the sand that he lies on is damp. The tide comes in, splashing over his limp body. The cool liquid burns him; it is like fire on his skin.
He lifts his body up with his arms, so that he is on his knees. He is surrounded by debris; soggy wood, metal, and a few crates with RED painted on the side. He gets up on one knee and then, with considerable effort, stands up completely. His breaths are still raspy, and his muscles are sore, but he's dealt with pain before. At least he's alive.
He hears movement, in the forest up ahead. He squints, trying to see through the darkness. There are two yellow eyes staring back at him, from the cover of the trees. He reaches slowly down to his belt, wrapping his hands around a familiar object. Slowly, he pulls the flare gun from its holster.
There are more cracking sounds in the bushes now, and he watches as three more pairs of yellow eyes join the first. They're keeping their distance, and sizing him up.
The waves lap against his boots. Other than the tide, the only audible sound is his breathing. Even the birds in the jungle seem to be subdued.
The first of the four shadow figures steps forward, and the man – the Pyro – raises the flare gun. The figure steps out of the shadow, and moonlight bounces against a dishevelled red suit and mask. The Pyro relaxes. It's the Spy.
His RED teammate takes two more limping steps forward, on an ankle which appears to be twisted. The Pyro doesn't lower his weapon. Something is definitely wrong.
In addition to his yellow eyes, his skin is clearly pallid and grey beneath his mask. The entire front of the Spy's shirt is blood-stained beneath his suit. The Pyro can clearly see the source of the wound – a bite mark on his shoulder.
The Spy opens his mouth, emitting a moan, and then charges headlong at the Pyro. He is salivating, letting out guttural grunts. The Pyro doesn't hesitate. He fires the flare.
It's a well-placed shot, into the Spy's stomach. It punctures his skin, and the Pyro can see the flame spreading within the man's chest cavity, trying to spread through his entire body. The Spy's clothes ignite. The Pyro can see the fire travelling up the man's esophagus. His eyes are melting, as is his brain. The Spy slows, and then stops his approach. The Pyro reaches for the axe that is strapped across his back, and then brings the stone axe head – covered in barbed wire for added lethality – down between the man's eyes. His skull, softened by the fire, bursts like a melon, and he falls.
The body lands at the Pyro's feet. The corpse is still burning, bathing the Pyro in warm light. He can see the surrounding beach much more clearly now, and he sees an object of interest. Reaching down, he picks up the gas mask that is lying, half-buried, in the sand. He puts it on his head. The vivid surroundings are mercifully dimmed by the goggles. The Pyro gasps in the filtered air. Now that he has his focus, he turns to the other three figures. They have left the cover of the trees. They all appear to be soldiers – one of them still has a weapon hanging off his shoulder on a sling. All of them have grey skin, and yellow eyes. The Pyro issues a muffled challenge, choking up on the axe haft with his hands, and they charge.