The full moon lit their way, flanked in all directions by brilliant stars. The eight mercenaries were walking along the road – the Spy was in the lead, still unarmed, and followed closely by the Soldier. The larger man held his shotgun tightly. He didn't aim it at the BLU agent, but he made it very clear that any unexpected movements would be a very bad decision on the mysterious man's part.
The Sniper followed close behind, looking up at the stars and the moon, trying to use them as a point of reference before the group got completely lost. Although they had made the Spy promise to take them to Spectre, he was extremely sceptical. He had seen the downed BLU plane, and the bodies, so he knew that there was no chance of a BLU ambush. However, he also knew the Spy's character, and he couldn't help but apprehensively carry the notion that they were walking out of the frying pan and right into a raging inferno.
He glanced over at the Medic, who was still carrying his prize; the female doctor, her head cradled in his arms, her inhuman yellow eyes closed – despite the grey skin and film of grime on her, the Sniper could tell she had been quite attractive, undoubtedly the target of many butt slaps and crude words from her superiors. The marksman was unsure of the Medic's motives with this colleague – this woman colleague – but he knew from experience that it wouldn't be pleasant. Nothing in their long history of partnership had ever given the Sniper a reason to believe otherwise.
Behind the Sniper were the Engineer and Scout – the older man had two pistols holstered, and carried his packed Sentry in his toolbox. The Scout had his bat resting over one shoulder. He looked nonchalantly out at the jungle, his peaceful expression contradicting the bloodstains on the dented weapon he held. His free hand toyed with his dog tags.
The Demoman followed, next to last, holding his heavy grenade launcher close to his chest. His head was constantly moving from left to right – the fact that he only had half of his natural vision was making him very jumpy, especially with woods to either side and a mental state that currently fell – to put it lightly – short of sobriety.
Behind the Demoman was the Heavy, a man whose calm, stoic demeanour gave the Sniper almost as much concern as the Spy's did. The Scout, Engineer and Soldier seemed to have assumed that the Heavy had forgotten their betrayal of him at the beach, but the Sniper knew different. He knew that behind that stone-faced stare and that slow, broken speech was a mind that was used to being underestimated; hell, a mind that counted on it. Sitting in his perch at the Dustbowl, and the Badlands, and the Pipeline, the Sniper had many chances to objectively observe the Heavy Weapons Guy, and what he saw was a mind which, while lacking in higher intellect, excelled in all applications military and tactical. Behind that bald head and those cold eyes was a regular idiot-savant. If a man were to ask the Heavy to add two and two, he would probably be met with any reaction from a blank stare to a broken neck. However, if he were to ask the man about the inner workings of his extensive gun collection, the Heavy would rattle off statistics from the weapon's origins, to its killing power, to its rounds per minute, all of which – according to the Engineer – were infallibly correct.
The heavy turned his head slightly, meeting the Sniper's eyes. The gaze remained locked for a few seconds, and then the Heavy sniffed, and looked straight ahead once more. The Sniper turned back around. Idiot-savant.
"Here it is!" The Spy hissed, loathe breaking the silence that the group had been keeping for the entire half-hour trek. The saboteur gestured at a large round hatch, camouflaged carefully, which even the Sniper admittedly would have missed. The hatch was attached to a small, round building, which seemed to run underground. Intelligence confirmed that Spectre was a subterranean fortress. These hatches would be all that could be seen from ground level.
The Soldier approached the hatch, and raised his fist to rap on it with his knuckles.
"No!" Both the Sniper and Spy cried, although it was the BLU agent who moved to grab the man and pull him to the ground.
The Soldier recovered from the shock of the man's attack before either of them landed. In an instant his hand was pressing down on the Spy's throat.
"You fool!" The Spy gasped through his obstructed airway. "All of the security systems are still up! Do you want... to kill us all?" He choked the last few words out. His eyes seemed to bulge behind the mask.
"Let him go!" The Engineer ordered. The Soldier ignored him.
"You... stubborn... oaf!" The Spy croaked. "You... want the... Intel?" The last word was a wheeze.
The Soldier hesitated, his face softening, and then he released the Spy. Both men rose to their feet, the Spy massaging his red throat with one gloved hand, glaring daggers at the Soldier.
"So what do we do?" The Engineer asked. "How do we get in?"
"More importantly," The Sniper interjected, "is there a way off this island?"
"There's a helicopter," The Spy wheezed, trying to get his voice back. "It's on a helipad, about a half-mile that way." He pointed past the hatch.
"Forget the Intel, then!" The Scout exclaimed, eliciting a growl from the Soldier. "Let's go!"
"Congratulations, boy, you're stupider than you let on." The Spy extracted his cigarette case. It was empty. He put it back. "Have you already forgotten that BLU Scout who you were so livid over earlier? The downed plane? This base has a missile defense system which, I am forced to assume, operates independent of human control. If you want to make an airborne getaway, you are going to have to go in there," he pointed to the hatch. "and disable it."
The Sniper glanced over his shoulder, at the woods not far behind them. They were wasting time, and he couldn't help but feel that the Spy was stalling. He strode over to the agent, and grabbed his collar. "Get us in there, then," he practically whispered into the man's ear. "You bloody spook!"
"Take your hands off me, monsieur," The Spy whispered back, having fully regained his voice. "Or you will lose them."
The Sniper tightened his grip briefly, and then let go. The Spy stepped away, glaring while he fixed his collar, first at the Sniper, and then at the Soldier. "There are still tensions, I see, over the colour of my suit." The Spy snarled. "If you boys can't learn how to keep them in check, then none of us are getting off this island."
The Sniper advanced a step toward the Spy. The Soldier simply ran a finger across his own neck in a throat-slitting motion.
Appearing to be outwardly unimpressed by these shows of bravado, the Spy nonetheless turned to the hatch. He brushed some leaves away from a section of wall beside the hatch, which housed a nearly unnoticeable panel. The Spy flipped the panel open, revealing a keypad and a slot. The Spy withdrew a key card from his jacket pocket, and then punched in a 4 digit code, inserting the card. The machine made a low humming sound as it processed, and then it regurgitated the card with a whir. The Spy replaced it in his pocket, stepping back as the large hatch swung open.
The inside of the base was well-lit, and the entire team was blinded as the synthetic lighting invaded their retinas. The Sniper squinted, pulling his sunglasses case out of his vest pocket.
They were staring down a steep flight of stairs, wide enough to accommodate two people side by side, or the Heavy.
The eight men crowded around the entrance, staring down these steps. There were about fifteen of them. The stairway terminated in two elevator doors.
"That elevator leads down into the heart of Spectre," the Spy told the others. "The belly of the beast, if you will. That's where everything went wrong. I believe the majority of the Infected escaped the first time I entered – they climbed up the shaft like insects, and swarmed out onto the island. I barely made it out alive."
"They closed the hatch door behind them?" The Sniper asked sardonically. The Spy glared back at him.
"It's a secured entry, controlled by computers. A timer probably closed it."
"Vell, vhat are ve standing around for?" The Medic demanded. "I administered a light sedative to my patient!" He gestured down at the Infected girl who lay in his arms, not even so much as a rope binding her arms. "I suggest ve move! Schnell!"
"He's right," The Spy agreed. "It's time to move. There are probably still Infected in those hallways. I would be careful."
The Spy heard the unmistakeable sound of a shotgun being cocked. He heard the unused shell hit the floor. He didn't need to look back to know that the Soldier had his shotgun pointed at the BLU man's back, and that the man had wasted his shell for mere dramatic effect.
The Sniper leaned in behind the Spy. "You will be careful, mate." He whispered, putting the weight of malice into every word. "You're going down first."
The Spy smirked, despite himself. "Without a weapon?" He turned around to face the others. "Need I remind you all that I have all of the codes, and all of the maps to this facility? Without me, you may as well just lay your weapons down and walk away, because you won't be getting off this rock."
The REDs were all silent for a minute. Then, finally, the Soldier said, "It's settled, then. Demoman, go with him."
"You bloomin' son-of-a" The Demo began, but the Sniper held up his hand. "No. I'll go." He grabbed his bow, which had been slung across his shoulder, and then started down the stairs. "Come on."
The Spy followed the Sniper down the stairs. The others watched as the RED marksman called the elevator. The doors opened almost instantly, and both men stepped in, turning around. The Sniper took one more look at his teammates, from the frightened Scout to the emotionless Heavy, and then the doors closed completely. RED and BLU descended into the abyss. A soft, instrumental tune accompanied them as they went down.
"The base is a mile below ground." The Spy said. He turned to the RED mercenary. "I sense that you volunteered to join me for a reason?"
"I haven't forgotten anything, you blasted snake-in-the-grass!" The Sniper replied, not taking his eyes off the elevator doors. "I haven't forgotten you, you lecherous rat, or what happened back in the Badlands."
The Spy raised his eyebrows, turning to face the door once again. "So you remember me, then. Interesting."
"I remember you, alright." The Sniper finally turned to look at the Spy. "I remember the looks in the faces of those unarmed Scouts as you killed them, in cold blood!"
"Better them, than me." The Spy replied, not raising his voice. "If they had managed to get that bomb to our base in time, then their weapons wouldn't have been disabled. They would still be alive."
"But death just wasn't enough with me, was it?"
The Sniper suddenly raised his shirt, facing the Spy, and revealing the faded scar in his chest. The letters were clear, despite being obscured by both hair and age. BLU.
The Spy smirked. "I forgot about that."
"Really? I recall you cackling while you marked me with the name of my enemy. Being an assassin for RED was just a job before that night. Since then, I have made it my career to hunt and kill rodents like you!"
The Spy's smirk spread, almost to a grin. "Consider yourself lucky I wasn't working for Spectre."
"You rat!" The Sniper suddenly drew his kukri, bringing it down in a vertical swing. The Spy jumped out of the way, and the machete slashed the upholstered side of the elevator. Before the marksman could recover, the saboteur had grabbed his arm, twisting his wrist and forcing the Aussie to his knees.
"Just because you need me," the Spy whispered in his ear. "doesn't mean I need you. Give me one reason to keep you alive, or I will break your shooting arm right now!"
The elevator doors suddenly opened with a loud bing, and both men looked forward. They were staring down a white hallway, streaked with blood on the walls and tiled floor. Two corpses lay motionless against the walls. A third body was on the floor, with three well-dressed accountants on their hands and knees, chewing out the man's intestines. At the sound of the doors opening, all three of them looked up. Six yellow eyes locked with four human ones, and the three Infected immediately charged.
The Spy released the Sniper's arm, and the RED outdoorsman wasted no time in swinging his kukri. He lopped the head off the nearest scientist – a stocky woman, before stabbing the blade right through the chest of a man. The third Infected tackled the Sniper, who lost his knife in the body of his previous quarry. The Sniper fell on his back on the ground, an overweight office worker on top of him. The Sniper held the creature at bay, feeling its rancid breath on his face as it tried to bite his throat.
Two hands, hidden under black gloves, suddenly appeared on each side of the creature's head. They twisted, and with a snapping sound, the bureaucrat became dead weight.
The Sniper pushed the man off of him, and then rose to his feet. The Spy was kneeling next to one of the other corpses, extracting cigarettes from its pocket. "You may not be necessary," he said, lighting a cigarette, "but that doesn't mean you won't make my job a little easier."
"I don't need your help," The Sniper growled, turning away from the Spy to kick one of the fallen Infected men onto his back. The assassin pulled the kukri from the businessman's chest with a tearing sound, sending a fresh splatter of blood onto the wall. "And as long as I'm living, you aren't leaving this island. I promise you that."
The Spy nodded. "I accept your challenge," he said, pushing past the Sniper, who resisted the urge to plunge the dripping kukri through the Frenchman's back.
They walked down to the end of the hallway, which terminated in a T-junction. To the left and right were longer hallways, which went on for as far as the men could see, sloping gently away from them. These long hallways branched off into new corridors on the opposite wall, every twenty feet or so.
"The entire base is round," The Spy explained. "The upper floor consists of multiple layers, all of them containing offices or cubicles. This is the business sector of the base – the 'face' of the fortress, so to speak. This is what Spectre wants its sponsors to see."
Behind them, the elevator doors opened. Neither man turned around, although they heard the Scout's voice ("What da hell's going on?") followed by the Engineer's.
"Spy! You'd better not have led us into a death trap down here!" The builder cursed as he stepped gingerly over corpses.
"So many bodies." The Medic added. "So many specimens." The three men joined the Spy and Sniper at the junction.
"Where do we go from here?" The Engineer asked.
"The elevators for the lower levels are in the middle of this circle." The Spy replied. "They are behind another hatch, marked with biohazard warnings. Don't worry, the warnings are only to scare off some curious investors, or so I was told." The Spy flashed another of those infuriating smirks.
Another bing, and the Soldier and Demoman were downstairs, leaving only the Heavy. The Soldier's eye appeared bruised beneath his helmet, and the Demoman was clutching his stomach in pain. Apparently the Spy and Sniper weren't the only ones who needed to clear the air about some things.
"Once we are down there, we'll have almost unlimited access to Spectre. All we have to do is disarm the system, and we leave this cursed rock once and for all."
"Don't forget, we're taking the Intelligence." The Soldier growled, as the elevator doors closed and the lift went back up for the Heavy.
"Of course," The Spy muttered venomously. "You're taking the Intelligence."
"Well, whatever we're doing could wait till morning." The Engineer said, with a yawn that caused a chain reaction from the group.
"Sleep? We're behind enemy lines, maggot!" The Soldier exclaimed. "We slept back on the beachhead, and that should be enough!" He whipped his head around, looking at the bloody hallways under the long, rectangular lights. "I hope you find a comfy spot, because if you get caught off guard by an enemy, your beauty rest will be a permanent one!"
"I'm with hardhat on this one, bruddah." The Scout said, mirroring the Engineer's yawn.
"Same deal as the woods, mate." The Sniper said to the Soldier, suppressing a yawn of his own. "If you want to go ahead alone, then that's fine by us. But we all need to be sharp if we want to get out of here!"
"Have it your way, maggots!" The Soldier said, turning and walking toward the nearest intersection, which led to the elevator.
The Soldier walked down the aisle, quickly losing sight of the others. He could see the elevators, in the middle of the chamber, and he strode toward them. The cubicles were silent all around him. The aisles were narrow, and there was no visibility. Two bodies lay sprawled between the elevators and him. He slowed, and then finally stopped. For the first time in his life, the Soldier found himself completely unnerved. He walked back. "I've thought it through!" He called to the others, his voice a little less firm than before. "And I think it would be the tactical decision to go down together, later! We can rest in these offices, but not before we make sure every elevator, vault, door and vent are completely secure!"
"Solid plan, mate." The Sniper nodded. "Split up, groups of three. I don't want anyone getting caught off guard. Demo, Engi, come with me!"
"Do vhat you vant!" The Medic spat, "I am going to find a secure place to drop off my... associate here." His eyes flicked down to the unconscious doctor in his arms.
They separated in their groups – the Sniper's group started clockwise around the circular hallway, while the Medic and Heavy went counter-clockwise. The Scout and Soldier took the nearest intersecting hallway, with the Spy between them, and proceeded to check every cubicle.
Holding his bat in his hand, following behind the Soldier and the Spy, the Scout could see why the former was so shaken by the prospect of traveling this route alone. Blood smeared the walls of cubicles, while some workers – their brains chewed right out – lay sprawled across the aisles, or their bloody heads on their desks and typewriters.
In addition to the round hallway that enveloped these cubicles, many more aisles intersected the cubicles, each aisle sloping inward, running parallel to the outer antechamber, like concentric ripples in a pond. The trio passed one of these intersections when the Scout heard something. He paused, looking down the aisle to his right side. The Soldier and Spy continued walking forward, not noticing the Scout's intermission.
The young man stood completely still, hoping to hear another sound, and possibly identify it. Presently, however, all he could hear were the footsteps of his companions, leaving without him. Then he heard the sound again – a swish, the ruffling of papers, followed by another, more heartwrenching sound – a woman crying. The sound was faint – it was undoubtedly coming from across the chamber – but the Scout followed it nonetheless. He moved cautiously down this intersecting aisle, losing sight of the Soldier and the Spy, and he was suddenly and jarringly alone. He tightened his grip on the bat, trying to pinpoint the sound, while simultaneously keeping his ears open for any other threatening noises. The cubicles crowded him – visibility was extremely low, and his eyes darted left and right as he passed the small workspaces. The Scout came up to a knocked over water cooler, with a body lying beside it. The dead man still held a paper cup in his hand. The young RED mercenary stepped gingerly over the man. The crying was noticeably louder now, and the Scout thought that he could see the cubicle from which it originated. The lament was mewling, and pitiful, and the Scout felt himself soften a little. Without knowing it, he had lowered the bat. He walked past a motivational poster: PERSEVERENCE – TACKLE YOUR DREAMS – with a bloody handprint on it. He was in another intersection; the crying was coming from the nearest cubicle. In the back of his mind, he thought he could hear another sound – a wailing, repetitive song, that chilled the heart and caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to prickle – but he ignored it. This woman was in distress.
The Scout looked to his left and right, and then behind him. There were no living people in sight. He swallowed, trying to lubricate a throat that had suddenly gone bone-dry. Reaching up to his chest, he gripped the dog tags that hung there
Lola
And then released them. He stepped up to the cubicle, looking inside.
He saw the cubicle walls – brown, claustrophobic, no different than every other workspace in the office. On top of the metal desk were a couple photos; a smiling young woman in a bikini, hardly old enough to be an intern, her arm around the shoulders of a large, young man. It was a beach shot. He saw the name on the desk, Sally, and the typewriter with half a page's worth of work on it. The title at the top said: THE MEDUSA PROJECT – TRANSCRIBED BY SALLY DUVALL. A revolving chair lay upended at the base of the desk, and beside the chair was Sally.
She was wearing what appeared to be a bra and dress pants, cut off at the thighs so they became shorts. Her face was buried in a pair of deformed hands, with fingers which ended in long, horrible claws. A red light was glowing on her grey face, and in a moment of terrifying, petrifying clarity the Scout realized that the light was coming from her eyes. She was far enough away for him to touch, but he had no intention of putting his hand on her. His strong, runner's legs suddenly became limp and numb. Only two seconds had passed since he had stepped into the cubicle.
Her sobs suddenly turned into agitated, simian growls. She lowered her hands from her face, and rose into a half-squat as she glared at him. The eyes were bearing on him, paralyzing him, and he opened his mouth in a silent scream.
She shrieked in response, standing up to her full height and spreading her long talons out. This broke the Scout out of his stupor, and without any conscious thought he bolted out of the cubicle, crying for help. He didn't need to look back to know that she was following him. Her shrieks filled his head, hellish banshee wails that sent him into a panic, and forcibly suppressed all conscious thought in his mind. He took a left turn at the next intersection, not slowing down, literally bouncing off one of the cubicle walls to keep his speed. He had dropped his bat, but he didn't notice. He didn't know if he was running toward the elevators, or toward the outer antechamber. It didn't matter. She kept screaming, he kept screaming, and she was gaining on him.
Suddenly, the Scout saw the Soldier round the corner up ahead, stopping in the middle of the aisle, blocking the Scout's path. He held his shotgun level.
"Move, move, move!" The Scout screamed.
"Get down!" The Soldier ordered.
The command barely registered in the Scout's panicked mind, and he continued to run, on a collision course with the man who WOULDN'T GET OUT OF THE WAY. Finally, as in a moment of clarity, the order made its way into what little of the Scout's reasoning brain was still intact. He didn't have the time or the capacity to think about it, however. Acting merely on faith, he dove to the ground at the Soldier's feet. Before he was even on the ground, he heard the shotgun go off. The sound was deafening, and he felt the rush of displaced air rip painfully through his ears. The screaming didn't stop, however, even though the Scout knew the shot was a hit – a miss was impossible in these aisles – and in an instant he could feel Sally on top of him. The shotgun cocked, and the Scout saw a spent shell hit the floor next to his head. Then he felt an immense pain in his back, and he knew that those claws – those horrible, unnatural claws – had just slashed him, and worse than the pain of the wounds in his back was the stark realization that it would happen again, and again, and again, because mortal weapons couldn't stop this creature.
The Soldier fired again, and the shrieks momentarily stopped, but then immediately started again. The Scout felt more slashes across his back, this time going the other way, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was going to die, and even if he did survive he would be disfigured, he would have those overlapping X's over his back for the rest of his life. The Soldier cocked again, and then fired, and the Scout felt the weight leave his back. He was finally free. The shrieking faltered, but the Scout didn't hesitate. He immediately jumped to his feet, turning to face the Infected woman. She was on her back, and he could see the shotgun shots that pockmarked her body, but she was rising to her feet again. The Scout pulled his scattergun from the bag across his back, and lowered the barrels to bear on the woman's face. She snarled up at him, revealing teeth that looked like they had been white, but were now just blood-stained. The scars of her bite, the bite that had infected her, were visible on her shoulder.
"Eat it, bitch!" The Scout cried, pulling both triggers. The barrels flashed, and the snarling, inhuman face of Sally Duvall splattered down the aisle in a mess of brains, skull, and grey skin.
The Scout was starting to feel lightheaded, and he could hear footsteps all around. The Sniper, Engineer, and Demoman were the first ones to appear.
"What in the bloody 'ell happened here?" The Demo demanded of the Soldier.
"For the love of God!" The Engineer exclaimed. "Scout!" He hurried over to the young man, who used his hard-hatted comrade's shoulder to balance himself.
"He was attacked," The Soldier said, thumbing a few fresh shells into his shotgun. "By that... thing." He cocked the weapon, sending the last spent shell spiralling to the ground at Sally's feet.
The Sniper knelt down over the woman's headless corpse, grabbing a long claw in his hand.
"That crying," The Scout muttered, breaking into sobs. "That wretched, sorrowful, crying!"
There were more footsteps down the hall – the Medic and the Heavy.
"Vhat vas zat horrible –" The Medic appeared in the aisle, no longer holding the Infected doctor. He met eyes with the Scout. "Nein!" The Medic pushed through the Sniper and Demo, stepping over Sally's corpse, toward the Scout. The younger man felt the doctor's hand on his forehead. "He vill die soon." The Medic said to the others.
"What?" The Scout cried, although he could already feel his mind clouding. He was rapidly losing consciousness. If the Engineer wasn't completely supporting him, he would have fallen. "W-w-what d-do you m-m-mean, I'm d-dy-" His face was pale, and his head lolled to the side. Everything went dark, and the Scout's world was scaled down to mere sounds.
"Is little man alive?" He heard the Heavy ask. The voice sounded far away.
"He is alive, yes." The Medic replied in a voice that was also distant, and growing farther with each passing second. "He is falling unconscious, fast. Grab him, my obtuse friend, and follow me. Ve vill take him to ze infirmary, where I have tied up ze Infected doctor."
The Scout felt himself being lifted, and he heard a jingling as his bare arm rattled the chain of ammunition on the Heavy's shoulder.
"Bugger me," The Sniper muttered. "Sobs like a siren, screams like a banshee, sounds like a real witch!"
"Keep your wits about you, maggots!" The Soldier shouted this, but to the Scout it was barely audible in the fog that was clouding his consciousness. "There may be more Witches like this around!"
"And for God's sake, wankers, keep together! I don't want to see any more o' you blokes buying it!"
Lola smiled at him, her blonde hair hanging over bare shoulders, the sheets pulled up to her chest. "Tony," She mouthed, but then even this image disappeared, and all was dark.
The Pyro can hear the calls all around him – even the ones that aren't there. He is walking on asphalt, but his booted feet can't tell the difference between this surface, or the forest dirt. The Infected are all around him. Apart from his equipment rattling, and the occasional footstep, he is silent. The only scent that is emitted from his flame retardant suit is the pungent odour of gasoline, and this seems to repel most of the Infected. When the occasional zombie gets too near, the Pyro sets him straight with a generous dose of blazing fire. The light will draw more of them, but by then the Pyro is far enough away, and the horde just stares dumbly at their smouldering kin.
There is a helicopter on a raised platform nearby. The platform is protected on four sides by high, chain-link fences with barbed wire, and behind these fences are four towers. The Pyro only sees movement in one of these towers. It is a zombie, and although this creature would burn nicely, the tower that he stands on is metal. The Pyro eyes the helicopter. It wouldn't burn; at least not in the traditional sense. What it will do is explode, EXPLODE, and that ignites a stirring which originates in the Pyro's heart, and then travels down to his loins. He feels an uncoiling in his heart as he imagines the fanfare behind this combustion – with nobody around to control the fire, it will spread to the jungle, and then the entire island. The Pyro lets out a triumphant yell, raising his flamethrower above his head, as he imagines a world of flame; flaming trees, flaming buildings, flaming people...
The Pyro hurries toward the fence. It protects the aircraft on all sides – there are no gates. The only visible entrance is a round, metal door inside the perimeter. He sees a sign upon the fence – it is the picture of a man, with a bolt of lightning piercing through him. The Pyro knows that the fence is electrocuted, but the thrill of the flames entices him. He pulls the trigger on his flamethrower, and immediately washes the fence in flame. The metal links glow dark-red, and then glow an almost orange colour as they become molten. The flame draws the horde; first three or four, then ten, then twenty. A couple of them touch the fence, and their brains are immediately fried. They fall limply to the pavement.
The flames subside, even though the Pyro is still pulling the trigger. The propane tank attached to the flamethrower's nozzle is empty. The Pyro immediately yanks it off. He must find another if he is to succeed.
He reaches over his shoulder, and his hand encircles the haft of the axe that is strapped to his back. He pulls it off, and swings it in a vertical chop. The blade connects with the fence, weakened by the heat, and severs the links in a straight line. Sparks light up on the barbed wire wrapped around the axe head. Metal links are sheared apart, leaving a gruesome gash as tall as the Pyro himself – a gnarled tear which disrupts the constant diamond-pattern of links running down the perimeter of the barrier. The Pyro chops a few more times, widening the hole, and then steps gingerly through it. He feels a light shock on his way through – his suit manages to prevent most of the current, however, sparing his life. He is inside the fence now, with the Spectre escape helicopter looming before him. There is a sign nearby – "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY – CODE 4 CLEARANCE REQUIRED!"
The Pyro hears a whirring sound to his right, and he turns. The large, round security hatch is opening. It swings outward, and the Pyro can see a man standing in the doorway. The man is tall, and thin. He is wearing an ash-grey, three-piece, pinstriped suit, with a matching grey mask over his head. One black-gloved hand is wrapped around a briefcase, which is also black. The Pyro sees a glitter of silver metal – the man's hand is cuffed to the briefcase. The other hand flicks a cigarette. The man takes one step outside. He is currently distracted by his pocket watch. The Pyro reaches into his belt for his flare gun.
The dark man suddenly looks up, and his eyes widen as he catches sight of the Pyro, who has unholstered his flare gun. The stranger suddenly reaches into his jacket with his free hand – the hand that had flicked the cigarette – and pulls out a large revolver, firing it before the Pyro can even raise his own weapon.
There is now pain in the Pyro's shoulder, and he feels himself being knocked backward, as if punched. The flare gun flies out of his hands. He falls on his back. The pain is nothing, however. He is used to the pain, for he has lived with pain his entire life. He immediately rises to his feet, gripping his axe, but the dark man has already turned around, and is bolting back through the door, and down the stairs. The Pyro hurries after him, but not before stopping to grab his flamethrower.
The Pyro steps into the doorway. The dark man is down a flight of stairs, standing in an elevator chamber. He is lighting a cigarette. The Pyro reaches for his flare gun, forgetting that he has already lost it. The elevator doors are closing. The man inside smiles up at the Pyro. "Au revoir!" He calls, and then the doors close on him. He has escaped. The Pyro hurries down to the elevator, knowing that it is already too late. There is a Spy loose in Spectre, and he has the Intelligence. The Pyro, all but forgetting his quest to burn down Spectre, presses the elevator call button frantically. There is Spy-checking to be done.