The heat of the desert sun beat down mercilessly, scorching any living being that dared step into its deadly rays. At one hundred thirty one degrees Fahrenheit, every soul that still could still respire hid in the gloom of any possible edifice. The overpowering calefaction from the sun suppressed common logic among the beings in the desert, reason being abandoned for need to cool down. So naturally, the mercenaries of RED and BLU didn't notice that a few key members of their teams were missing.

James struggled uselessly against the bonds on his wrists. He couldn't see, he couldn't talk, he couldn't move. He was trapped. Thrashing against the floor, his covered green eyes welled up with tears. This was it. He was going to die here. It was mere moments before that the tortured screams of Gabriele filled the air of the small barn. The American didn't want to know how his French friend met his demise. Why? Because he knew that it would just make him panic all the more.

Putting his hands on his back, Eda leaned backwards, cracking his spine in several places. Even in simple shorts and a tank top, the heat was overwhelming. Yawning, he stretched his arms behind him. In the end, Deraschoen would always be a pyromaniac though. He was born to handle the heat.

Flipping his welding mask over his eyes, a torch found its way into the strong hands. The cold metal pipe snapped loudly as the intense flame worked its way over the its hard surface. Sweat poured down the sturdy body of the man wielding the flame, causing old burn scars to ache in remembrance of the days they were made. The solid metal underneath his glove hand slowly heated up, glowing a dazzling white color. The torch stopped, and he flipped up the mask, examining the brilliant white end with a critical eye. Deeming it was enough, he turned around to face his next victim.

"We could've been friends, Lachlan. But you betrayed me."

The marksman glared at the pyromaniac, eyes filled with hate. He was tied to a tall wooden beam, mouth gagged.

Eda chuckled deeply, walking closer to the sniper, scorching pipe in hand.

"I know this must be hard for you, considering you're used to be the hunter. But," the pipe twirled delicately between his fingers, "I'm afraid that you won't be able to hunt again."

A flicker of fear shot through grey eyes as a hand gently caressed his face, it's owner crouching down in front of him.

"I'm sorry."

There were no words strong enough to describe the pain that coursed through Lachlan's veins at that moment. The feeling was hideous. The feeling of the sweltering metal jammed into his eye socket, burning flesh and nerves. Bloody streams of tears running down his face as his muffled, tortured screams filled the air. Metal met bone as the pipe was shoved in deeper, awesome pain overloading the fragile receptors in his brain. It was too much! The blood, the pain, the feeling, oh god the feeling!

Eda pulled the pipe out the other man's head with a sickening popping noise. In place of what used to be one of the most talented eyes in the world lie a gaping hold, destroyed eyeball and blood leaking out of it. Crimson liquid stained the once pure bandages that held back the defeated whimpers that escaped the strained throat of Lachlan. But he wasn't done here.

"Try sniping now, hun."

Another thing the men at BLU wouldn't notice. A missing spoon.

Said spoon was dug out of Eda's pocket and held against the sensitive flesh surrounding the Australian's last eye.

"Why so serious?"

Tears streamed down James' cheeks as the screams of his friend filled the air again. What was going on? What was that demon doing to him? Images flashed through the darkness that covered his green eyes. He remembered when he first got to the base, all alone, no one to talk to, no one to support him. He remembered the first time he killed someone. He remembered throwing up more than he ever had before after, foreign hands holding him steady. He remembered looking up to see Lachlan, sympathetic smile covering his usually apathetic face. The screams intensified in the background as another popping noise echoed through the small building.

"It's okay, mate. We all live, and we all die. When you're out here, you have to fight to live. Hey, don't start crying on me, you filthy lil wanker. Come on, let's go get you cleaned up. Oh, my name's Lachlan by the way. Looks like you and I are going to have to stick together, considering we're the last sane people in this desert."

As he sat there, reminiscing about the time he had spent with the sniper, James didn't register that the screams stopped, and the footsteps walked over to him.

A razor sharp blade pressed against the runner's Achilles' Tendon, pressure threatening to break the skin.

"Good luck running after this."