Demoman and Spy both sat for a few minutes against the concrete of the BLU base, rubbing their arms and attempting to catch their breath. Their daring, Herculean feat had left them weary, but they were far from finished.
"I will take care of the Sniper," the Spy said resolutely, getting to her feet and dusting herself off.
"Be careful, that bloody Sniper is ruthless," The Scotsman said, rising to his feet as well and stowing his liquor. "I suppose I'll take care of the rest of their team?" He joked and gave the woman a friendly, reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Kick his arse for me."
Spy nodded and parted ways with her colleague.
She cloaked herself and decided to stalk the metal-clad exteriors of the rows upon rows of buildings on the BLU side of the field in order to find the particular one the Sniper was staked out in.
In enemy territory, she was very much alone, but it wasn't the other team she feared, quite the contrary, she knew she could handle them. What did concern her was being left alone with herself.
The woman loosened her collar, which was fastened a bit too snugly. She pulled back suddenly, something wet and sticky on her collar, grimy blood from earlier. To the Spy's dismay, the stains had grown considerably, and to further her distain, they probably wouldn't come out either.
She clenched her fist until she was white knuckled and her nails pierced her palm. How dare that filthy troglodyte insult her in such a way. She could buy that Sniper five times over with how much a single suit cost. He had the nerve to shoot at her, but not only that, he completely ruined her suit.
He had only grazed her with a bullet. The woman scoffed aloud. The amateur couldn't even finish her off, and she was even standing still for him…Slowly, her eyes widened.
The RED Heavy was sprinting, quite quickly considering his size, and his head had only just came into view, yet he was dispatched in a split second. She'd been standing in the clearing, dumbfounded, for an eternity longer than her more unfortunate colleague; she was a far simpler target to hit.
It wasn't as though the Sniper hadn't been paying attention either. Upon entering the glade, the Sniper's dot sight was on her before she'd realized it. Bearing all of that knowledge in mind, there was no logical reason as to why her brain was still in her skull, but the Heavy's was painted on a warehouse wall.
Why was she still alive?
Deeply, on her most visceral level, a sense of foreboding contorted at the pit of her being, like a sea of writhing serpents. They squirmed up through her chest and throat to escape her lips as a discomforted exhale.
None of it made any sense.
Why did he hesitate?
Did he have a reason for it?
He must have a reason…
It was at this point, that the Spy momentarily halted her search. Forehead crinkling perplexedly, her mind trailed over the many possibilities.
Could he have just been toying with her? The woman imagined that a Sniper could become quite bored. Waiting was his job, after all, and she supposed that he'd get a twisted thrill shooting at unsuspecting REDs just to watch them scamper in terror. If she were in his position, she probably would too.
Perhaps some "loose ends" had followed her to this god-forsaken slice of hell.
The whole event, it had to have been a fluke. There was no way he could have planned the outcome. The uncouth bumpkin must have just gotten lucky when he fired at the Heavy. No one is that good…right?
The Spy had to admit that it was an impressive fluke, incredible even, at how quickly that man could line a shot.
What if he actually was talented?
At this point, she knew she could only speculate, but she could just pop in for a moment. The woman did have to pay him back for his renovating of her suit, as such an insult could not be unpunished.
Perhaps the Sniper would be worthy of all the warnings the Demoman had mentioned.
She doubted it.
…
The Spy wandered for a long while, but was finally able to locate an entrance: an unlocked door. Spy entered, the room appeared to be a faculty office, and the lay out was eerily similar to that of the ones on RED's side of the field. The only difference was a cooler, contrasting color palette. It still felt like a penitentiary.
She sauntered tentatively along the interior, keeping close to the walls. She was approaching the empty archway into the hall when she heard a couple blasts in the distance. Demoman must have just been greeting the other team. Refocusing herself she—
Seemingly from nowhere, a sudden blur of motion zoomed past her face in the hallway. The roughly man-sized blur was gone past her just was quickly as it had appeared. The blur was in fact a man in overalls who was shouting incessantly about "sentries."
She blinked a few times and lowered her shoulders. A relieved sigh peeped from her lips. Clearing her throat, she gathered herself and continued her journey.
The hallway was dim with concrete flooring and marked with several bare sconces on the walls. A bulb flickered in the distance. All noise had been slowly strangled from existence; only the soft rhythm of her exhales could be heard. The Spy walked cautiously, keeping footfalls low; just ahead she saw a red, illuminated sign labeled "Stairwell B."
The woman met with the stairway door and just inched it open enough to slip through. There appeared to be no one using the stairs, a straight shot to the second floor, to the third room, and to her target. As she went up the flight, she softly ran her fingertips against the metal railing, and the iron sang in muted tones with her every step.
Pushing the landing's door, she reached a leg into the second floor's hallway; it no longer had the rough-hewn concrete from before, instead there was wood paneling similar to scaffolding. It was lined with archways into the adjoining rooms and filled with dull, yellow light. Spy slowed her stride to a crawl. Glimpsing to her left, she peered into the first room. It was empty, except for a few metal barrels. She could see through to the window; RED's side lay in the distance, hazy in the heat.
She pressed on, checking the second room quickly, nothing, say for some remodeling equipment. The woman felt her chest tighten, and her fingers wrapped vice-like on the knife's base. Every moment was agonizing, taut and restless, to the point at which she could scarcely breathe. The devouring sense of urgency ended with but a paltry glance.
As she'd hoped, the Sniper had not left his nest. He was skinnier than she thought he'd be. Sitting staunchly on a pile of stacked crates and motionlessly hunched over his rifle, the man showed no signs of acknowledgement. On an adjacent stack, a mug filled with what smelled like coffee sat stoutly beside a sizable, unsheathed, machete-like blade, both lay at an arm's length away. Even from behind, Spy could tell he was tall. He was rather gawky as well, especially with the oversized shirt and vest he wore that hung off of his body limply as though he were a scarecrow.
She crept silently closer and drew her knife, twirling it open, and exposing the blade. He lay fixed. Spy bit her lip, readying her blade, stalking close enough to hear his shallow breathing. Then, the floor squeaked.
The man swung around with his knife and came to his feet alarmingly fast, knocking over and shattering the mug. She was just far enough away to quickly dodge backward from his slash. With a rolling of her shoulders, the woman guarded with her blade.
As he came to a rest from the initial swing, the Spy decloaked in a thick cloud of coppery smoke as an attempt to disorient the man and make her way behind him. Snarling at his inability to see his foe, the Sniper rapidly swept the back of his hand around. The swipe caught the woman's shoulder while she moved, and caused her to drop her knife. In retaliation, Spy caught the man's forearm as he was pulling back from his second blow. She swiftly yanked the arm toward herself to off-balancing the man. With her other arm, she swung an elbow squarely into his jaw, slicing his lip open. He winced back for only a fraction of a second, despite the obvious pain. He came back too rapidly for the Spy to anticipate and flung her away. Wasting no time, the man pinning the discombobulated Spy to the wall with his arms. His blade forced menacingly close to her neck.
"Gimme one reason not to," the man growled. He was an Aussie as his accent seemed to suggest. Gritting his teeth, he stared down at her.
"I can think of six," the Spy smirked as she pressed her revolver's muzzle into his jaw, cocking the hammer back.
Eyeing the revolver momentarily, he returned his focus to the woman.
Several tense seconds passed, the rivals glared directly at each other, trying to read the next move, scrutinizing with only their eyes.
"Why do you still hesitate, bushman?" The woman taunted.
"Shut up." The Sniper grunted.
"Why not kill me now," The Spy persisted, delighting in the man's aggravation. "Do it, won't you?"
"It would be too easy; you aren't even worth it."
"Then we have reached an impasse," The woman muttered coolly. "You are obviously not able to finish me, and I find myself unwilling to end you…for now." Though her face barely moved, the edge of spite was unmistakable. "Your lucky day, eh, mate?"
Eyes remaining fierce, the Sniper pressed his kukri threateningly like a guillotine; his gaze spoke volumes. From behind his sunglasses, his eyes were icy, piercing, and hawkish. The biting frigidness of his glare made the scorching heat of the desert preferable. His expression was unwaveringly hard.
He appeared to be about thirty. Looking disheveled, his chocolate-brown hair jutted out from under his outback hat, and from the state of his stubble and sideburns, he looked as if hadn't shaved in a few days. His gaunt face was punctuated with a long sweeping scar across his left cheek. Under different circumstances, lighting, a shave, and a few drinks, she may have called the brute passable.
"So, how is your lip?" She jeered. His injury was dripping at a concerning rate. Down his chin, drops of blood pittered to the wooden floor below.
"How's your suit?" He rifled back.
Her eyes flitted down momentarily to her bloodied collar and lapel.
"Don't bugger me, spook, I know your type," he continued in his deep grumble.
"You don't know me, bushman." Her voice was a harsh sneer.
"Aw, what's wrong, ya snake?" He brought his face nearer and grinned, exposing his sharp canines. "Did I hit a nerve?"
"That must be the only thing you can hit."
He sort of made a half chuckle, perhaps impressed by the woman's gall. The Spy could smell the bitterness on his breath, coffee.
"Some bloody maneuver you pulled out there,"
"Which one?" The woman scoffed haughtily.
"Usin' your Heavy like a shield, can't say I've seen that," He lowered his voice. "Rather than laughin,' I shoulda just shot your legs."
Outside, the yellow glow of day was quickly fading into the warm amber of evening, and the heat began to fade right along with it. Then, a siren blared, announcing the match's end, in the favor of RED.
The man lowered his weapon, not slowly, but deliberately. She lowered hers in response. Though the blatant threats were removed, the scuffle continued wordlessly. The pair sustained eye contact, neither daring to be the first to break it.
In truth it was only for a minute, but it had felt like an hour. The man finally folded.
Courteously, he stepped backward to let the Spy slip out from under him. "You win today," He said in his stiff tone as he tipped his hat to the victor. "But if I catch ya in my crosshairs again, I won't wait." With that he turned and left.