A/N: ...I have no excuse for my tardiness.
...Well, at least I finally got it published! Yaaaay!
*Angry crickets*
Eh-heh-heh... ...*Runs*
Flesh splattered against his face before the pain even registered.
To worsen the Spy's day, the unforeseen tactile stimulus festered quickly, and shot through the his nerves in streaks of lightning. In each cell it grew within a blink, speeding through layers and layers of his tissue. Circulation was interrupted by an oozing half-pipe in his shoulder. Jaws fought to hold his cry in, the scent of his own gore serrating his nostrils.
Someplace in the distance, the Sniper chuckled.
Gasping, painfully reeling forward in a hopeless attempt to halter the warm cascade, his pupils darted over to the shotgun peering out from a half-open ventilation shaft, watching him through steel holes and lead pupils.
The Spy's instincts cut through as the adrenaline blazed, fingers unconsciously seeking for a weapon that wasn't there as his toes jabbed around blasts toward the nearest cover. Shots fired, all the bullets attempting to fill into him further as he darted. The pain was chewing persistently away his upper-half, breathing a sudden chore. He ungracefully tossed his damaged body behind the wooden containers, barely evading the buckshots – of which blasted through the housed vegetables shielding him instead.
A grunt nudged through from the collision of cement, sensations he-didn't-enjoy tumbling through his body as he attempted to straighten himself up. He dug himself as close as he could against the wall and floor from his position, ignoring the squishing of the potatoes following the gunfire. Rosy saliva dribbled from his lip along his leaking shoulder. The Frenchman was no fool – he knew that the only thing keeping him from falling over was the Uber assisting this in his chest, filling him with whatever life-assisting substance they placed in the things.
Merde.
Past the pounding that resounded in his eardrums, the Frenchman heard the enemy assailant hop down from his perch to the ground, boots landing with a loud thump. There was a moment of nothing. Then they began scuffling closer to his position.
His eyebrows clenched as he feebly seized his determination. The silver peaking from under his eyelids lolled over to the pointy pick lying still in the scarlet-bathed glove. There was no other option outside retaliation...
...With a pick...
"Get out here, sweetie," sung attacker as he approached in a grizzly tone, "...Know what? If you come out in under ten seconds, I'll make it quick. How about it?"
The Spy's hand tightened on the lock-pick.
Gardez votre vision droite... Gardez votre monde tout droit...
"...Have it your way, then," the footsteps resumed again, the echo of ammo being loaded joining as the BLU rounded the corner, "C'mere, louse. Mr. Gun here's gonna fucking destr~"
The Spy braced his weak legs and sprang atop the cylinder like a cat, completely exposing himself.
"TH' F-"
SWING
Metal disturbed the man's thick, dark neck in the creation of a tiny hole – a scarlet trail dribbling out of the puncture on the skin. The Spy's foot stomped against the man's weapon, sending it to clatter against the ground, and he pressed his spare shoe against the barrel to knock them both to the ground, all while tugging his arm to tear the man's flesh away, and all the veins that filled it despite the protesting gurgle.
For a moment, the Spy nearly passed out on the man's gargling corpse, but he managed to roll himself off regardless, his wound tender against the floor beneath. The cement's frigid temperature slithered across him. He was too exhausted to care, eyelids too heavy to focus on the dying body right beside him. With every liter spilling out, he felt a bit lighter. Cooler. Sleepier...
"That aoin't too smart, y'Tall-Poppy," spoke the Sniper, a silence nudging slightly between his words before he addressed the Spy, "Ought'a do somethin' 'bout your shoulder's toime of month first. Bleeding's an easy way ta go, but..."
His eyelids peeled themselves apart to stare at the blank-faced carcass right beside him. A practical puddle of insides was washing the back of his neck, the yellowish crowns in his mouth decorated in red splotches. A jagged incision decorated his Adam's apple, and a bloody abyss led to the inside of his neck, twisted muscle strands jutting inwards.
The Spy felt too tired to react in any way.
Groggily, he propped himself up and tried to search for anything that would assist him on the corpse, hooking fingers through pockets and peeling through articles in hope he'd find something, but the only items he could extract were mounts of lint, an empty bottle that smelled of fermented mango, (A strange love-letter from a someone named "Steve" was written on a note attached, covered in crayon-smeared hearts) and crumbs.
He threw the bottle against the pieced barrels with a smash in childish disappointment, hanging his head at the lackluster prospect. The Frenchman was drenched in himself, and the further he involuntarily bathed, the more the urge to fall over pained him...
Before he knew it, he succumbed, thudding down against the cement.
His eyebrows clenched, then loosened, then clenched again, trying to focus on the door miles away. He felt the ground wetten, warm roses blooming and swirling under his back. The Spy felt himself sinking into them...
"Oh, for th' love of... Get up. If yer gonna re-enact Sleepin' Beauty, you can at least toss the pick my way so oi' can try t' shimmy meself outta here," the Sniper muttered, boredly slumping his upper body against the iron rails, "If you die 'ere, neither of us 're gonna be able to do anything. Cept you. You'll be decomposin', and such. Oi'll just be bored, when oi' could've saved you."
His mouth tasted as dry and rotten as a war-combatant's skeleton. "What 'appens... ...'appens to you is of no concern..."
"Who's to say? Oi' don't loike ya, but oi' consider myself slightly less loikely to kill ya than whatever bloke walks in 'ere in a blue shirt."
"Blue? Oh, but I zhought you'd protect us all from zhose in black shirts," the Spy spat in an amused, red spray.
The Sniper made not one gesture of care towards the accusation. "Would you an' Engie get off my ass about that? That kid had nothing for me not to think he could've been on RED, Spook – you know better. He was in a prison uniform. Runnin' from our Stronghold. We don't know anything, and there's more evidence that he is BLU than anything else."
"I can tell you, without a trace of a lie, right here and now..." the Spy growled from the floor, "He is very much on RED."
The Sniper raised an eyebrow, staring thoughtfully at the Frenchman. "...So, oi' was roight."
"...What? H-"
"There is a connection between you and the kid. Just wasn't sure what it was 'till now... Alroight, oi' was wrong – too quick. Oi'm sorry."
That was big enough to warrant a reaction. The Spy . "...How are you so sure?"
The Sniper shrugged. "You don't strike me as the toype t' care about ankle-boiters t' begin with, not t' mention all the lil' shits they've been recruitin' for th' last few years. This scar on my cheek's a bit of a sign – t' me – that you know who 'e is. And ya don't loike me suggesting that he should die for being on a side you know he aoin't on," the Sniper spoke, tone flat. The Spy could only let himself silently drink these words, fuming at the man for being right on every note. "Well, Spook, that's all oi' know – your fault fer bein' stupider than you think you are. The story roight now is about me, standing 'ere completely bored, and you lying there without the strength to so much as wank. And unless you move, we're probably both fucked."
"Preventing your possible demise... Zhat's... Not... Much of an incentive..."
"Oi' know it aoin't. But isn't a fifty-one percent chance of living just a little better than a fifty?"
"Not really... Not when compared... To zhe seventy percent chance of someone coming down 'ere..." the Spy shut his eyes, "And you getting maimed..."
"Oh, but Spook... Whot about yer mission?"
The silver circles popped open. The voice sounded somewhat different from the usual tone the Australian carried. Harsher. Colder.
The Spy squinted, palms clenched. "...Wh...What?"
"Huh?" the marksman asked, his head slightly cocked to the left. The cheeks were spread in a confused frown, "...Didn't say anythin', Spook... You feelin' okay? ...Besides the obvious, oi' mean."
The Spy grimaced, and looked over at the killed BLU. Exasperated, he pulled the pick out of the dead-man's throat – ignoring the torn flesh and crimson splatter that followed – and lifted his own body up off the ground, stumbling over to the Sniper's cell. He fumbled with the deadbolt more than he did the last time, but he eventually released his colleague from the space.
He wasn't expecting the Sniper to catch him when his feet slipped.
And he didn't.
The Support Class slumped to the floor, the marksman's feet swaying along in his clouded perspective. Soon, he found himself in the throes of sleep...
The Sniper frowned at the sight of his co-worker crashing on the ground. Too apathetic to do anything truly good, he settled on making ripped bandages out of the Frenchman's sleeves to roll around the shoulder, and then shoved his shuddering body into a half-empty potato barrel.
Community service, compared to what he would've done, he mused. Tipping his hat to no one in particular, he picked up the shotgun and scuffled out of the room.
(-)
...What is this I don't even.
Among travels of literally blistering roads, the Scout's state had not changed whatsoever. His violent temperament was just as displaced under anesthetics as ever.
Feet full of crusted cuts and sleeping blisters gripped to unfamiliar ground, and they were quite unsure how they were to slip forward. He forced them forward, though the movements lacked any sense of grace. They were patterns he couldn't articulately explain to his body, the steps were completely lost on a morphine-bathed brain. Hands a similar state to their lower partners were forced to wield a familiar shape they'd been attached to since he'd risen, choosing to focus on unrelated delusions of hallucinations. His teeth clenched as he hissed out puck's profane-cousin.
One instinct that had not budged whatsoever was the flair of the lad's cursing. That created a strange comfort within the entangling sleepwalk through hell.
In a scene of retched, colourful blurs underlined by whimsical Shakespearian dialogue, other beings had come to being with great being-i-ness. The wonderful creatures were bathed in barbaric filth and verbal profanities, beating anything remotely nice about themselves away with death-threats and casual battle stances. One in a helm several sizes too big screamed a question at him that computed and snaked through his slowed neurological pathways, and the greatest idea he could muster through the interior gunk was the equation, 'Drunk=Liquid'...
...Liquid...
He couldn't feel the claws of his hunger or thirst greatly, but there was a nourishingly seductive finesse to the idea of bottle. ...He couldn't compute...
"...S...Sure," the Scout frowned, taking the army-guy up on his offer.
The doctor (he assumed) flicked his snowy lenses up the bridge of his nose, glaring at the army-guy. "Abs0lUTely NOT," he snarled at him.
"OooOOOHH YYEEEH?!"
"jA!"
The Offense Class swayed in the jelled oxygen swimming through his hair and the softened jaws of the tent composing his shirt, hopelessly staring. How was he to process the spouted exposition and insults lying in varying dialects wrapping in unattainable ribbons around him, deluding him to no goddamn end?
The lad dipped his toes in the charred floor tiles, hoping they'd somehow notice his bloodlust and be intimidated/give him complete and utter control over their lives. Demon-like chatter about flags and manliness flooded out of the gaping mouth of the army-guy, the word 'dumb-cough,' continuously churned out the sticky brain-matter smeared across the doctor's beak, someone was being strangled behind the scorched door nearby, and Goggles was mumbling something about insanity to his feet. All he could do was stand there, trying everything possible to hear in a way that processed anything beyond detonating vernaculars. But it was all in vain. His shoulders submerged under the conversational rivers, comprehension long drowned in there.
"THeRe'S nOthING WrING Th a LIL cARNagE oNcE in AWIHLE!" the man in the stupidly over-sized helmet continued from the door, smiling. His entire body defied gravity, floating inches above the sanitary-slaughtering on invisible wings. "...aRTIoTIc! oNE ef FIRST STePs inTA mANhoOD! ...Hee... gOd, mY fEet look fUNnY..."
Funny was right, considering they had decided to do the worm in midair. The Scout continued to glare down the top of the gun, blearily searching the hallucinations for weapons. Well, what the hell else could he do?
"SoLDaT, yOU DuMBCoUGh...ve're ...metaphorical ter... BuCKEts..." spoke the doctor of the Unit. The demented caricature of a medical man looked like a corpse, really, decaying away with the gradual drainage of his insides through the gushing pierce on his skull. "hE cAN't dRInk ZHaT pISs-"
"hOW dO YoU knOw ThAT?! yOU dAMn kRaAaAAauUUT!" the American barked, mouth flowing with jagged teeth at the German, "yOU dUNnO sHit!"
The bird-faced German then released a gooey, darkened puff of smoke that creeped away somewhere, and looked over to the man in goggles next to him. Goggles, unlike his cohorts, looked completely normal, if not slightly smeared. His physique was stocky, short in stature, unwilling to ripple whatsoever with the jiggling mould of air. His shirt was a crisp red that cut through the transparent jello in a calming shade, reminiscent of scarlet leaves that'd crowded lawns in autumn. The relative sanity of his homeostasis was actually comforting, compared to the earth's shattered psychosis.
Without a word, Kraut put his glass of orange juice in Goggles' hand, muttering something. As the man rippled his sleeves up and distended towards army-guy. The Scout's eyes wandered to Goggles for a second, and then to the shimmering glass positioned in his palms for much longer.
...Orange juice?
Looking a little to the left, he found the man in goggles looking over at him, face too twisted for the boy to gain any idea of an expression. His eyes had been swallowed by dark, plastic voids, leaving the rest of his face in a pale canvas. For a moment, neither said a thing.
"...H-Howdy," the man finally offered. His voice was low and soft, like an auditorial pillow.
After a staring a few moments, the Scout let the gun sag to his hip and shakingly reached for the substance in the cup.
He felt like he was standing on a seesaw. With a bag of cement on his back. On one side. With a monkey slamming drumsticks against his brain whilst simultaneously massaging it.
A surprised, sad sound left the Texan, and he immediately extended the glass to younger combatant's grime-encased hand. "Jesus, 'course you can. Drink up, son... Slow now-"
His fingers tore the glass out the stocky gent's palm before he could finish, and the entire thing was about to splash down his gullet within five seconds, pulp and all, but the man's hands stopped him by clamping his wrist and his neck – a definite, firm interference. He instantly glared best he could, detecting an instinct to pull off Goggles' head.
"H-Hold yer horses," he told him, his tone not at all matching his hands as it quivered out apologetically, "You'll throw it up if it goes down too fast. Ain't gonna help none of us: You especially, since you won't get nothin' from it. Ah' know it's hard, REAL hard, but... Trust me. You'll wanna drink it slow. Use the straw."
The Scout, too tired to be snarky, did as instructed as the hands left. He simply took a tiny sip.
He felt his circulation work again.
Fuck, was it an improvement. In fact, it was simply too godly to put into words. All he could do was swallow the rejuvenation with bliss.
As he experienced the most splendid thing that'd occurred within his long, lingering period of near-death, Goggles stared at him. His chin seemed perpetually itchy, as his fingers wouldn't leave the aftershave.
"...How'd ya get here, boy?" the Texan asked him, cocking his head.
The Scout looked up at him with his glazed eyes. It took him a moment to process past the swindling mist constraining him in the mental labyrinth, and the sweet cobwebs on his teeth, but he eventually managed to answer.
"...Walked..." he articulated in no less than the most magnificent zombie-ish tone ever spewed by a human male.
"Walked? Through... The desert?" Goggles questioned, a meaty hand still housing his tilted chin.
"Yeah." Slurp. Fucking hell... He couldn't stop monologuing in his head about how good the juice was.
"Ain't you a trooper..." Goggles commented, rubbing his forehead, "Most would've died, doin' that. Must be tough as nails, huh?"
Duly noted. At least Grandpa knew when he was addressing someone beyond awesome, like this case. He might've been a salvageable person in that regard.
"...Where're yer parents?"
The Scout's fingers twitched.
"Not here," he said.
"...Ah can see that. W-"
"They're dead," he explained, perhaps a tad too briskly, "Alone. Here, right... Right now. Yeah."
Goggles went quiet for a moment, and crossed his arms, the blank voids piercing through the bangs obscuring his face. The Scout was greatly unnerved for a moment, (frightened almost), but then he was distracted by the lack of juice in the cup.
Goggles gave a quiet huff. "...Can ah' at least get a n-"
"M...More..." the Scout cut off with a slight rasp, handing the glass over, licking his lips in case a sole drib had missed his teeth. His own voice wasn't harming him nearly as much as it used to, which was good, but he still was thirsty enough to drain a lake.
"Sorry, son," the Texan spoke, wringing his fingers over his belly, "Ain't got nothin' on me. ...Well, there's probably some liquor left. Demo's g-"
"BEER'S ALL IN ME BELLEH," boomed a loud slur within the distant armory, "M' SO HAPPY. ...BUT M'SAD. ... ...HAPPY-SAD. ...YEEEEEAAAAH."
"YOU SELFISH BASTARD!" barked the army-guy over his shoulder, a spray of spit soaring away.
"...Oh," murmured the Texan, "Well... Well, maybe ah could run along to the kitchen an' try ta' getcha somethin-"
"NOt yET."
The Texan's blank face darted to the source of the voice, and the Scout looked over his shoulder to the things that produced this fear, perceiving blurred, blue outlines standing a fair distance away, both of them carrying firearms pointed at them. He frowned. This probably wasn't very good.
"LiSTen hErE, an LIsTEn cLOsE, 'cUZ WE'Re oNlY goNNA sAY tHIs oNcE," spoke whom he assumed was leader, a tall, blond gent in glasses with a shotgun, "GIt ON yER KNeES aN-"
"HEY, I WAS TALKING!" cried the army-guy, blowing up said gent's head, along with his comrade with his own shotgun. Apparently, this was the greatest comedic act of the century, because the guy in the armory was laughing with such volume, it was a wonder his lungs hadn't burst. His laughter completely drowned out the thud of the bodies falling to the floor in the glorious messes. The army-guy withdrew the shotgun and leaned it on his deltoid.
The army-guy looked back to the German.
"...So, after the moose chewed his face off..."
The Scout briefly surveyed the dead folks, and looked over at the Engineer. "...Wher' iss'is?" he asked, regardless of his poor opinion of the Texan.
The man simply mumbled something, looking between the headless figures and the army-guy, "...God, what...?!"
"Hey," the Scout repeated. Goggles was irking him somewhat.
He looked over to him again, mumbling slightly before speaking up again. "...This... This is... ...Our base, son. In the middle of nowhere. S'in a cliff. Which is supposed ta be safe... ...S-So how'd BLUs get in here-? ...Everyone here's so quick ta'..."
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
Suddenly a rather portly, hairless giant raveled along down the hall in their direction with easily the biggest gun the Scout had seen in his existence, and a younger girl significantly shorter was right behind him. He held the stench of intense sweat, his face had a scarlet hue, and Miss Pauling was no better in the later regard. Even with eyes that couldn't keep things lucid for an instant, the Scout could easily see that both were terrible runners. Still, he studied her for a minute, hit with a sudden uncanny valley effect. Much to his ease the feeling quickly left, though. He did what he could to avert his eyes from her as soon as he could.
Miss Pauling breathlessly shouted, "THEY'VE CALLED REINFORCEMENTS AN-" then she looked at the bodies, "...Oh."
"You... Ya didn't hear the shots, Pauling?" asked the American, running his palm around his smushed, cropped locks.
"I-I heard the blasts very clearly. But there was laughter as well, so I had assumed that you were firing for no reason, considering you were both... You and Demoman are ridiculously drunk, Soldier. ...And I thought we at least had an hour before the reinforcements showed up," she explained in a murmur, her gaze stuck on the bodies, "Evidently, I miscalculated..." she looked over at the Scout. An eyebrow rose, but she didn't say anything.
"Um... Evidently; THEY'RE DEAD," Goggles spat in disgust, "What the hell is wrong with everyone in this building? No one... Lemme repeat that; NO ONE, cares that they just held us at gun-point, or that Sold'j just blew their heads up? In front of a kid?"
"You know, vhen you say, 'everyone in zhis building,' you include yourself... Right, Engineer?" asked the German with a smile.
The Engineer flipped his head over, his goggles brightly illuminated by the ceiling lights. "Ah' don't KILL people! Ah' don't just, 'shrug off,' murder! This entire place is a nuthouse – YOU'RE crazy! All of you are damn CRAZY!"
"Of course ve're crazy, und you are too – to an extent," frowned the Medic, "Every human being on zhis planet is crazy. ...Regardless, shut up, Engineer. Zhis is simply business... Kill or be killed. There are practically no combatants that aren't murderers here... If we were to break down how many were pacifists, zhey vould be about... Point two percent, out of the entire war. ...You yourself are also crazier zhan you give yourself credit for, sie bedauernswerte Schwachkopf."
"...What're you saying?"
"Oh, nothing. I just like bothering you, you quaint human being," the doctor grinned, "...Which do you find is more comfortable, hugging pillows in your sleep, or wrapping blankets around yourself?"
"Uh... Blankets? Pillows tend to fall if ah' bother t-" The Engineer's fists clenched, "Don't you change the subject on me! What are y-"
"Engineer, he isn't going to reply sanely," Miss Pauling sighed, a chipped nail pushing her glasses back, "Just... Trust me, drop it. He held me up for a solid half-hour on useless inquiries."
The Medic and looked over to her, his face housing great, false shock. "Zhat vas a secret! You promised!" as if some odd cue, he quickly scuttled over to a weirded-out Heavy's side and leaned over to his ear without hesitation, "Miss Pauling likes traaaaaaaains. She told me so."
The Heavy slowly raised his eyebrows about a quarter-inch. "...Why dis important?"
"She's has a..." the Medic bit back his lip, "...One-track mind, zhat's vhy! ...HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
While the Heavy stared at the medical Class like he'd just stated his favourite political figure was a cactus, Miss Pauling coldly slid her palms down to her hips, and she addressed her men, the pale skin of her chin elevated.
"Gentlemen."
Despite this, no one listened, spare the Scout and the Engineer. The Soldier, the Medic, the Heavy and the Demoman seemed to have decided to completely ignore her, the drunks suddenly talking about fashion that they hated on women, while the Heavy was preoccupied trying to decipher ANYTHING the doctor was chattering about to him.
"G...GENTLEMEN."
None of them listened, spare the Scout and the Engineer. The Scout looked around, snarled, and brought the gun up, firing in the air.
All eyes turned to him.
"SH...SHADDUP. Lissen't her'." he rasped, pushing the burning words from his tongue.
Miss Pauling looked over at him in slight thought, before clearing her throat. "...Gentlemen. In case you were too full of liquor to notice earlier, I inform you now that we are very much under attack," she evenly spoke, "Heavy and I encountered a BLU Spy who... Was wearing the Pyro as a disguise. We killed her, but she was carrying a beacon. Whoever her Unit is, knows where she is. We don't know if there's nine or nineteen, but we do know that our first priorities are to both secure the base and shut down the main Teleporter."
The Soldier frowned, a slight sag of his shoulders accompanying a glum expression. "...Whad'about Smokey now...?"
A sigh skimmed her lips, her soft arms held by clenched fingers. "We... Did not encounter its body. But it is most probably dead."
The Engineer stood silent.
"...Sh...Shit. He had the makings of a great patriot," grumbled the Soldier, fists numbly balled at his sides.
The armory flew open with a kick and the Demoman stepped out with a pile of bombs filling his arms.
"Les' hunt some muthah'fuckers," he snarled. Though his words were vengeful ones, one skim of his features would tell anyone he scarcely understood what was going on, nonetheless cared whatsoever.
(-)
Click, click, click
"Darrel?!" blared the obnoxious voice into the walkie-talkie, "Daaarel! Please, pick up! Please, don't do this to me!"
Ignoring the ambience of his sobbing teammate, the BLU tapped his boot against the central RED teleporter's steel rim, watching the glowing red sphere in the center glow against the massive room holding it.
Mechanical geniuses from several decades past had glumped their brains together to create transporting devices, primarily through trial and error. After years of experimentation, Christ's birth had been put to shame by the enthusiasm shared amongst the builders after creating the first successful, non-fatal Teleporter. And now, the contraptions were casually distributed among the combatants, and a healthy specimen of one resting on the floor by the BLU's boot. The spherical transporter was big enough to be a bus stop, the bench simply replaced with a revolving, reflective alloy that spun quietly around the center, slow and intentional as molasses. Wires glued into the edges of the large device, carrying electricity along to the processors and through the generator, filling the base with lifeblood as well as allowing the center to shine through the darkness. Atop the contraption was a pale-haired BLU, intentionally watching the spinning motions. His toned arms laced over his vest, eyebrows slightly clenched in thought under the machine's hue. The crying boomed along the reflective walls, incapable of removing the man from his dive into his thoughts.
"Trap, shut the fuck up," growled a blonde, somewhat heavyset woman near the door to the rest of the base. She was casually preening the loose membrane of navy spanning her nails with distaste. This woman's hair was long – however – it was ill-maintained and stringy, and her clothes were on the somewhat more revealing side, evident as she pulled a lighter out of the line of her breasts stationed under a rather tight chemise. She looked like a worn hooker one would discover someplace in the slums, not a war-combatant.
The crier darted his head over to the woman in question, his cheeks hidden under a gloriously outdated gladiator helm, though lines of liquid seemed to seep down his neck, gluing strands of shoulder-length hair to the skin. His gaze was instantly filled with buckets upon buckets of scheming venom, broiling and seeming to figuratively serrate everything they rested on. She was unphased. "Don't you DARE suggest Darrel be dead! Don't you dare!" he barked in her dead-eyed direction, "Darrel... Darrel's just probably forgotten to put the battery in his walkie-talkie... Perhaps he's just taking a nap? Yes! Yes, that... That must be..."
She pressed her rosy lips out in an annoyed sigh. "Sure, in dirt..."
"Close that tongue before I do it for you," bit the words from the supposed leader on the teleporter, "Trapper isn't easily calmed. I do not wish to be forced to turn the friendly fire of the Sentries on."
She rolled her eyes. "Look, can we just go now?" she asked the pale man, "The alarm sounded. They're probably headin' over here right this minute... We got Sentries everywhere in this room. I wanna flush the rest out with this madman."
The pale-haired man held his stubble in thought. "Must the loose ends always be tied?" he asked tiredly.
"Pssh, course. More blood, more pay. Less vengeance-crazy mother-fuckers out for my head," she sneered. Her voice was a drawl of nasal resonance and tarred chords, "Besides, it's fun."
The leader smirked, dropping his arms to sag by his cargo shorts. He turned to his comrade, a sneer on his face.
"Then go. I won't help you."
She grinned right back, and sauntered over on prim, flesh-smeared boots to his side, where she proceeded to give him a loveless peck on the cheek.
"Just what I wanted to hear," she whispered, withdrawing her palms from his well-built chest. She turned and faced the weeping BLU in the corner, her lips tugging into a small, lip-stick covered simper as her bony fingers cocked her shotgun.
The man seemed to sense the stare on his shoulder, and turned to the scandalous owner with a widened counter-stare. "...Wha...What do you want?" the man asked with a slight tremor, as if he was so pre-occupied with phantoms he'd lost recollection of the world, "...Why... Why do you stare? ...Do you know where my darling Darrel is? Is he alright?"
"Darrel's dead, sweetie."
There was a silence. A slight twitch. Then nothing again.
"...Who did it?" came the emotionless response.
"Hmm... Bunch of guys in red shirts. Let's go kill them, 'kay pigeon?"
"Yes."
(-)
He'd argued. God, he'd harangued and argued with Miss Pauling for what felt like hours on why it was a bad idea. He hadn't budged from his points, despite everyone telling him to let it go, from the Soldier's drunken barking to accept the 'facts', to the Medic's corrupt and absurd-riddled logic he'd accompanied by little pats on his head (like he assumed his cold hands would be able to provide a trace of comfort). The Engineer's lips were clenched. And he'd kept his foot down. He remembered the vehement outrages and the spit he'd had to wipe off his lip after every five sentences, Miss Pauling's tired disputes and temple massages; every tap of her shoe against the ground was fresh in mind. Still, his nails had wedged into his palms as his cheeks had turned the shade of his shirt. And it wasn't until the kid had hit the bulls-eye twice with Scattergun mid-dispute that he realized he had lost his biggest leverage of his argument. This prideful, drugged feat of warfare had his case bulldozed away. Before he knew it, the Soldier had tossed a canteen of water the kid's way, the Medic had given him a shot to both sober his sense and kill any pain, the kid had been armed, and the rest was history.
Now there they were in the echoing labyrinth; the kid, the Demoman, and he. All parading down the hallway. All covered in weapons (in the Engineer's case, covered in several packs to make machines with). The kid taking the middle. The Demoman taking the back. Red siren lights framing them in hellish depictions for each rotation through the glass, ceiling pipes curling overhead in complicated rivers assembled in cautious haste.
"Weeeeeeeeee..." the Demoman sung, the only thing skipping as fervently against the tiles he being his shadow, of which flickered on and off with the lights on the walls, "'Eeeeeeey, lads... Ya wanna hear th' song about me ex-wife?"
"Nope," the Engineer replied, uneasily staring down the shotgun barrel. Deep red lined the walls, and his footsteps echoed much too loud for his liking. Every silence was filled by either his boots, the Demoman's gargle or the smacking of the kid's somewhat-too-big feet jammed in the course leather.
He watched as the kid picked up the pace to his side. His hair was littered with dirt and he looked starved still, pale skin drowned by the occasional, demonizing red glow streaking along. Every time he glanced his way, the Engineer was incapable of shaking the image of the kid's spongy skeleton out of his mind, those goddamn ribs drizzled over with pus... Whatever the Medic had shot him with must've been some powerful shit to keep him going. After all the hell he'd gone through, he was still preforming voluntary service to combat the invaders, and god knew why. Or why Miss Pauling and the others saw no wrong in it – even the Medic, a doctor. In the Engineer's mind, it all just boiled down to a complete lack of overall judgement.
"Ain't weak, y'know."
The Engineer looked over at him as he kept by his side, the kid's chin turned to his collar bone with a tightened jawline. His expression seemed to twitch between stoic and worn.
"...Huh?"
"Don't need your pity," the kid harshly repeated, squinting down the barrel as his toes pedalled along his course, "S...Stop lookin' at me like I can't do shit, I... I can..."
The Engineer looked away from the darkened frame jogging next to him, the scent of oil filling his lungs. How goddamn long was this corridor?
"...Never said you were weak, kid," he replied, trying to keep the concern off his features, "Said the opposite, actually, if you can recall. ...Probably, can't, but..."
Several patters echoed along.
"...Scout."
The Texan peered over, letting the title sink into memory. "Huh?"
"...Imma Scout. On RED," he spoke with a sweeping rasp.
The Engineer felt the tiniest ghost of a smile haunt his face. "Pleased t'meet ya, Scout. Ah'm an Engineer. My colour's obvious, ah'd hope."
The Scout's fingers silently dug into the handle of the firearm as they rounded a corner, gripping it with a slight tremble of his tendons. They fell into silence as a new branch in the path distinguished itself-
The ceiling above suddenly burst about twenty meters away as a man fell through in a blue, armoured uniform.
"YOU FUCKING MONSTERS," snarled the new enemy as he took out a black-barreled Sticky-Launcher, beginning dancing lines across the walls consisting of glossy, spike-lined bombs.
"Oh, dear..." mumbled the Demoman, signifying which direction to turn as he propelled his legs back around the plaster corner. The Engineer and the Scout turned tail without hesitation, speeding down the corridors as the heat tore into their flesh with a series of embers molesting their skins. The Engineer's breath ran hot as his heels, hitting his arms desperately to chase the sparks off his sleeves.
His ears were ringing.
The Engineer charged along, smoke leeching into his lungs. Sweat poured down his skin with fervour, the Uber subtly grinding against his ribs as he ran while smoke attempted to crawl through his goggles' sides. Any degree of pain was alright, if meant escape from the corridor behind him turning into a flickering, smouldering wave of orange. The siren was having a screaming contest with the Scout's scattergun, the lad backpedaling whilst firing destructive rounds into the haze.
A sole bomb flew out of the flames and kissed the ground a meter behind the Scout's toes.
The Engineer did not think as he turned, tipped over the detonation, yanked up the younger combatant with one arm, and began charging away from the blast behind them. He staggered slightly from the burst, but kept going, trying not to drop the confused skeleton or his weapon.
The Engineer felt himself grimace as he realized the kid couldn't have weighed more than seventy pounds.
Another explosion sounded as a sudden pair of soles pressed their rubbery grooves between the Engineer's shoulder-blades. His shotgun clattered to the ground. Before he could so much as yelp, his cheek smushed against the grime-stained floor, his tongue probing strong-flavoured fluids pouring out from an interior gash. The Scout was under his forearm, reeling as well. A ripple of agony sped through the skin and through the bones of his skull as he tried to push himself up. The Texan's goggles, and his hat, askew from the awkward collision, caused a two-shaded view as he craned his neck to see the two-hundred pound man standing on him, and the Sticky-Launcher aimed at his skull. The Engineer saw eyes staring into him so wide, so full of insanity and mindless anger rimmed by the feet of crows. The Texan, under the breath of the lunatic, wondered how many beats it'd had skipped during the stare-down. The only moistness in his mouth came from the cut. He couldn't bring himself to so much as squeak.
The perpetual second was cut as a red Sticky-Bomb splatted on the armour. The BLU quickly tossed his own launcher aside, and tore it off, yelling as he tossed it at the drunken Scotsman. It detonated in midair, blooming in a smoky, blazing wad, which the Demoman's frame interrupted with a broadsword. The blade fell on the man's arm, hitting steel. This did not pause the Scotsman, flailing his sword wildly to make the man step backwards off the Texan.
"I CAN'T DIE! NOT HERE!"
"Meh, yer gonna hafta," murmured the Demoman, parrying the man's punches with the flat while looking through his visual haze to find chinks in the armour. Without even turning his eye for a second, he spoke. "Engie, git up. Kid, too."
The Engineer immediately obeyed, dragging up his shotgun as he stood. Hesitantly, quivering, he studied down the barrel, waiting for a clear shot. The Demoman's body, while not wide, was far from a stick's-width, and his constant movements were making aiming difficult. He sucked in a rocking ball of air, the metal shaking in his hands. He needed to make this shot...
...But...
...
... ...Could he?
The Engineer did what he could to bite the lump in his throat down as the Scout managed to hit the enemy's leg – a gory mist sliding down the calf – wondering how he could do much of anything. The Demoman was not giving up, but his drunken movements had slowed a tad, and they were both heading towards the smoke. The Scout quietly jeered at the struggle at his side, and the Engineer was left trying to pin-point where to aim, the pipes along the walls gleaming from the flames' light-
The pipes.
His aimed turned, and the bullet sailed.
Scalding water burst out and swallowed the BLU, who began screaming in shock from the sudden change in temperature. The Engineer immediately felt terrible, as the Demoman was fully taking advantage of this. The BLU still defended himself, but his blocking was sluggish when boiling water and the leg injury were coupled, and the Demoman's swings – though insane – were continuously seeking entry into the flesh. Soon, he'd backed the gent into a wall.
The Demoman looked over his shoulder as the man attempted to beat him, his sword darting wildly to prevent this. "GIT GOIN', YE USELESS TWATS!"
The Scout stared at him, unamused. "...THROUGH THE FUCKING FIRE?"
He grabbed the man's fist. "WHERE ELSE? TAINT'AS BAD AS IT SEEMS, LADS! HEAD THROUGH TH' FIRST DOOR – GO!"
"WE'LL DIE, MAN!"
The Engineer frowned, trembling. "...Come on."
"Wha?" the Scout asked, "I c-"
"Talkin' t' mahself, son," the Engineer grumbled. Though the urge to fall over traced his nerves, the Engineer began charging. Charging past the pipes. Charging past the bullet-made puncture and a the hot water spilling out. Charging past the Demoman and his still-kicking enemy. Charging past the first wave of heat and flames, the embrace of burning-
What the fuck was he doing.
Watching the death-trap flicker, the Engineer turned around.
As his boots tromped along away from the inferno, the Scout hesitantly followed him through the dusty ground, a look of inquiry and thorough confusion knitting a squint across his sunburnt features. "Y-Yo... You... ...Wha'd about th' Teleporter?" he asked, trying to push his skeletal figure closer to the pace of the Texan.
The Engineer addressed the youngster with a small frown. "...Well... It's just a stupid plan. Ah' just realized now... But thanks to this BLU fella, the entire basement's a suicide-path. Put two-an'-two together: They can't leave the Main Teleporter's room through that fire. It's gonna eat everything up in this hallway. There's a Fire-door at the end of this one, which'll keep the heat an' everythin' from coming up to us. Ain't no reason to shut the Teleporter down when the flames 're gonna scare everyone off t' go back outside, is there? An' as fer the flames, give a few hours, an' the fire's gonna choke itself out when it runs out of oxygen, and when it does after 'bout... Ten hours? We'll run down and shut it down, and send a note askin' to fix this hallway. 'Cause God – does this section need it."
The Demoman glared at them, the flames bringing out a dangerous sheen against the green of his iris. "YE NINNIES! EVERY LAST ONE O' YE!"
"What, 'cause ah' don't wanna roast alive?" the Engineer questioned.
"NO, YE-" the Demoman stared at his still struggling opponent, before apparently deciding 'the hell with it' and beheading the sucker before turning back to his accomplices, "...Y'GOTTA TRY AND BE MORE WARRIOR-LIKE!" he shouted, tucking the blade into its sheathe, "WHAT IF WE ENCOUNTER SUMTHIN... SUMTHHIIIN LIKE THIS 'GAIN AN YE TROT OFF ALL FINE-AN'-FANCY-"
The Engineer winced at the sight of the headless being. "...There's beer in the kitchen."
"OKAY!" the blur of the Demoman cried as he rushed through the hallways.
The Scout frowned, holding his Scattergun vertically against the edge of his shoulder. His eyes were clearing, and getting weaker with every blink. "...S'good idea," he murmured.
The Engineer frowned, putting his palm on the younger combatant's back to scoot him out of the smoke wringing along overhead.
"Let's go. We'll getcha somthin' t' eat, alright?" the Texan hushed, his voice one note above the roaring fire behind them. The Scout spared him a nod.
(-)
Sparkly, pink puddles of syrup had filled the ground under Pyro after the lady-monster left, her stupid face of sharp teeth long gone down into the hallways. Pyro had been there for a long time after it'd been kicked on its back. Like a turtle.
Hee-hee... Pyro liked turtles.
But then it remembered it was stuck. There was more syrup now than ever before.
Pyro didn't like syrup.
It tried to reach for the candy-striped door, but it was too far away, and its hand had smacked against the puddle instead. Again.
Pyro felt very, very weak. It remembered the lady-monster's boot ramming its head a few times, evil mean eyes meanly looking at Pyro's face, like all evil monster-ladies and gents did.
Pyro didn't like monsters.
"Blauhgh, finyiashllopp, dunguduta... Priiilllloslupa," she'd stated, putting a stick of blue-and-white striped smoke-candy in her lips before slipping off into the folds of the fort's walls as Pyro was left all alone, lying in the pink syrup.
So, Pyro was alone now. And it really didn't like syrup.
It looked past its chest to the boots guarding its feet, twitching the toes in it's bizarre sleepiness. Its back felt funny. So did its heart.
...
Had it been on a merry-go-round?
Seemed unlikely.
But Pyro was dizzy. Why? Why was Pyro dizzy? Did someone catch it?
It hoped not. That would be... Bad... Very bad.
Pyro! Hiya!
Pyro looked up.
Aw... What's wrong, ol' buddy, ol' pal?
Balloonicorn floated over Pyro, pink and smiling, the warm lights overhead creating a halo for the fluffy, floating horse. Pyro smiled back. Pyro loved Balloonicorn. It weakly saluted to the plush guardian of the tinsel-flower fields, happy to see the airborne equine alive and here to assist. Perhaps they would play ukulele together to pass the time, until a hopefully nice doctor gave it a Band-Aid?
Don't quit! We've got ...ngs to do... ... ...
But then he started floating up to the lights above, it's voice fading.
Pyro grabbed its leg, scared. The lights blocked the horse's face, and it slipped away from between Pyro's fingers.
...
It disappeared from view.
...
Pyro's hand fell back into the syrup.
...
Pyro started crying.
...
Everything was going all twisty and smeary. Bright too.
...
The syrup under Pyro was sticky. As much as Pyro didn't like it, it was pretty. But the more it pooled, the more tired Pyro got.
...
Pyro didn't want to go with Balloonicorn to the light on the ceiling.
Going there meant ...Pyro couldn't play anymore.
Pyro... Pyro didn't want to lose the game.
Suddenly, though, a silhouette appeared at the end of the corridor. Pyro looked past the sparkles filling its sight, watching the thing walk down the stretching walls. They blocked the light with their long shadows, spreading black, human-shaped streaks across the floor like paint pouring down a hill. In their hands was a red water-gun. Pyro felt scared by it.
...I wonder if they'll be friends with me?
The Pyro attempted to ask its question, but only managed to release a gurgle past the syrup in its rubber-sheathed throat.
(-)
"Medic, could we possibly play trivia after we remove the base of the current gentlemen trying to shred us with bullets?"
Miss Pauling and the doctor backed themselves against the wall, her fingers balled against the handle of her piece. The Overseer's dark hair was near-undone and wouldn't budge from her sticky skin, falling unprofessionally in her eyes, but she was too busy to remedy herself. Perhaps later, she pondered, as the gun opened to be fed.
Next-door by about ten meters, the Heavy and Soldier took turns firing around the corner, arguing with their opponents all the while about cows. The girl ignored as her nails skimmed to ammo cartridge strapped at her mid-thigh, plucking about twelve shells, popping them into the hole. The gun clicked its compliments to the chef as it closed. At her side, the Medic lingered, the mask hanging stupidly down his chin to hide any semblance of an expression. Or to prevent any form of utilization of his eye-sight.
The broad shoulders slumped at her words, and his head swished in a resounding 'no'. "'Possibly'?" he asked the short-statured woman, "Vhy? Zhat means zhere's a chance I can't ask you later! ...Heheh..." he paused as he let Miss Pauling recover from the explosion of the Soldier's rockets bursting against the end of the corridor, "...Anyway, no, zhat's illogical. So, vhat are your opinions on Alice in Vunderland?"
"'Wonderland'?" Miss Pauling asked, standing on the tips of her shoes. Her lips were puckered, as if there was a lemon on the roof of her tongue keeping her memory at bay, "How in the world can I house an opinion on something I lack knowledge of?"
"Zhe most basic of creative literature? You don't know? Oh, Gott, you poor little philistine..." the Medic harangued, plastering his palm to his face, "How do you sleep at night vith such an empty head, you vretched girl?"
Miss Pauling fell back on her heels, her glasses askew before her complete shock. "I do beg your pardon!?"
"Beg away – You shan't receive it," the Medic huffed, feverously crossing his arms over his chest, "I have lost all motivation to converse vith you. Meine große Entschuldigungen."
As these sharp comments serrated whatever semi-positive opinion Miss Pauling had held for her eldest subordinate, a certain patriot dragged his combat boots over to the conversing two. His coat was ragged, decorated with little chunks of his internal components and buried pieces of metal, and his movements were clumsy – blood-loss had a bad habit of doing that – making him stand with the slightest teeter and an finite slouch.
"MEDIC I DO BELIEVE I'M BLEEDING TO DEATH," he sputtered through clenched jaws.
The Medic flicked his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "And you expect me to somesing about zhis, ja?"
"YES?"
"Ugh," he grumbled, whisking his fingers to the sleek contraption resting on his back. Familiar mist left the nozzle and circulated around the American. The bullet casing shed through the rapidly closing cuts, leaving behind little scars under the spotted jacket, "Please converse vhen I'm not trying to manipulate Miss Pauling's negative emotions, hmm?"
"OKAY," the American said, running off to the corner again.
Miss Pauling raised her eyebrows at this comment. Silently, she watched the Soldier leave before turning her person to the Medic, seeing the same, indifferent maniac, his mask raised so he could observe his curl. Her mind spun theories and easily discarded fallacies in threads of bemusement, filling her mood in a numb state of mystification.
"...Doctor, I am your superior," she spoke, "...Why on Earth would you attempt to sour my opinion of your character? You gain nothing, I gain nothing... I could just put in one word to have you put in the firing line, if I felt your agitation deserving. And that would be a kindness compared to things other Overseers do with unruly combatants!"
The doctor continued rolling the dark strands around his index, flicking them, then rolling them again. "Oh, but you vouldn't dare resort to such a zhing. Others might, but not you. And I don't zhink I gain nothsing. Twisting your conditioned, closed mind..." his words slithered. He flicked the curl a final time before moving the pointer to a particular mat of hair over one of her eyes, pushing it to the side like a stringy curtain so his unnerving stare would be uninhibited. "It's entertaining, really."
"COWS... COWS HAVE EXACTLY SIX STOMACHS. THAT IS AN UNDISHPUTABLE FACT," the Soldier drunkenly barked over the corner, his helmet deflecting a pistol shot from one of the six BLUs at the other end.
"THEY HAVE FOUR! FOUR, YOU MORON!" shouted someone from the other end of the hallway, "DUDE, DID YOU TAKE A SINGLE BIOLOGY COURSE IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE?! THEY TEACH THAT SHIT IN THIRD GRADE!"
"B...BIOLOGY?! PARA-SCIENCE!" declared the Soldier, "THE CANADIANS MADE IT UP! IDIOTS!"
"HEY, FUCK YOU! I'M CANADIAN!" roared an ink-haired man at the back of the corridor, unloading an entire SMG spread towards their end, which the Soldier ducked to avoid.
"Explains how poor your spirit is!" laughed the American, when a sudden, metallic ball rolled a few feet down the narrow floors and burst into a brilliant white screen that burned into everyone's eyes.
...Actually, considering that Miss Pauling and the Medic were a fair distance from the corridor's mouth, the Soldier was protected by the shade of his helm, and all six of the opponents were directly in front of the flash grenade,(as the throw had been botched) the only one remotely affected was the Heavy, who staggered back slightly and blinked several times to ward the spots away. And the only ones severely affected were the six opponents, who'd been in much closer proximity.
"FUCKING HELL LARRY!" yelled one of them, digging his palms into his eyes, "BURNS! SPOTS! ARRGHH..."
Miss Pauling managed to bump about two of them off with all twelve of her shots, before the Soldier finished laughing and blew them all up with a surprisingly well-directed rocket.
Once they were all dead, his humour died.
"Mish Pauling, you've got just about the worst aim I've ever seen!" he boomed at her, startling her enough to drop her gun, "You could've slaughtered everyone with your incompetence!"
A blush bloomed under the Overseer's cheeks. "I...Shut up! They were far, I..." she muttered, clenching her skirt, "Try to understand, I-"
"WELL, ZHEY'RE DEAD. LET'S EAT STUFF IN ZHE KITCHEN," the Medic declared, triumphantly raising his pointer.
"MED-MEDIC YOU'RE A GENIUS," cried the Soldier, racing the German to the kitchen as they laughed and screamed like small children, leaping around charred, indoor landscapes.
Miss Pauling lingered behind the combatants, watching them retreat. Violet cotton fell from her hands and rumpled below her knees, leaving the opposite textures empty.
Several things she would've put down in crisp ink, had she carried her clipboard.
Unruly, undermining, disobedient...
She thought of the doctor.
...INCORRIGIBLE.
But the papers weren't there. And so, her ribcage a furnace, the girl's anger ran rampant under even breathing and clenched arms.
"Panic is bad."
The Heavy's voice caught her attention, making her turn her chin up to properly view the worn giant. Sasha lay in the crook of his elbow, his eyes clouded with dismalness. Though he looked ready to retreat and hibernate for the rest of time, he seemed serious. As usual.
"Pardon?"
"You panic. Panic is fear. Fear destroys prevision," the Russian was calm as his broken English brought his point, "You must keep head cold in fire-fisting. You must keep weapon straight. Else you do not hit. And dis is bad. Fear has places, but you must control it like clockwork."
Miss Pauling drank the advice from the old bear, pushing her bangs back again. "...Precision. Not prevision."
The Heavy grappled his forehead and snarled. "Почему английский ненавидят меня ...? ...Err, you understand what Heavy says though, yes?"
"...More or less, yes. My thanks," Miss Pauling said. Her arms fell to her hips, and she took a brief second to straighten out the linen covering her lower body. Tentatively, she picked up her pistol, loaded it again, and tucked into its holster along her mid-thigh. She began walking up the passage to the door at the end. "Hopefully, Engineer isn't having any trouble."
(-)
The Scout had not ceased tearing away any at residue of grease left in his bowl.
The Engineer had decided to let the poor boy eat the whole time they were in the kitchen, tossing him as much food from the fridge as he could (advising him to chew slowly the whole time) while he'd microwaved soup. Thankfully, the timing had been good, as once the youngster had consumed all the peanut butter, bananas and whatever the hell else he threw at him, the cans of soup were done.
And now, the Scout still probed his tongue around the plastic, as if the world would implode if he missed even a sliver of chicken fat at the bottom.
Hunger really is the best spice, the Engineer thought, twinging the internal thought in his sadness. Honestly, he felt letting the kid into the kitchen by himself to get some damn nourishment was what should've been done in the first place. He was still weak, that was obvious, but now he looked less... Well, dead.
The Scout finally gave up and let the bowl clatter to the wooden table, letting himself arc over the top, staring at his covered hands. His eyes were still distant and wild. But the glaze seemed to be fading away with every moment.
"Man... Feelin'... Not as fucked... Still kinda fucked, though..." he murmured his thumbs, "Man... My stomach feels like it's gonna blow now... Better... But..."
The Demoman sat across, gurgling from his bottle. "Shit happens..." he muttered, "Shouldn't 've eaten that much, laddie."
"But... Ugh..."
The Engineer grabbed a chair next to the kid, giving a somber smile his way as he casually sat himself down. "Couldn't help yerself?"
"Yup."
"Yep."
"..."
"Ain't no shame, kid. You went... How many days without a proper meal?"
The Scout rubbed his forehead. "Dunno. Can't remember. Weeks...? ...Can't..."
"Don't force it, ah' don't really care," the Texan comforted, "Days though, right?"
He gave a weak nod, twitching as he suppressed a groan.
"Don't matter t'me. Just focus on getting better. Worry about what happened later," the Texan advised.
"Okay."
Suddenly, the kitchen door was kicked open. Both the Medic and the Soldier ran past the splintered footprint in the door, cheering with their arms in the air.
"WE SAVED THE BASE FROM CANADIANS," the Soldier grinned.
"AND NOW VE'RE GETTING HOT-DOGS," the Medic grinned.
"LOTS OF HOT-DOGS," the Soldier added.
"YES."
They ran to the fridge, the tails of their coats flying as they hastily took out the plastic package, tore it to shreds and began frying the pinkish meat on the stove, laughing away about their triumph.
"Well that's weird," the Demoman commented, slurping liquefied grain from his bottle.
"Hey Demo, you want 'sum tooooo?" the Soldier asked his frenemy.
"Oh, sure."
"Good."
On her clean flats, Miss Pauling trotted into the kitchen, a tired look in her eyes as she lingered by the damaged door. Her posture remained straight as a post regardless, the Heavy roaming past her to the fridge to retrieve a flask of vodka.
"Paulin'. Howdy," the Engineer smiled pleasantly.
"Engineer. Status report."
The Texan bit his lip at her cold tone. "...Well, we were gonna shut it down, but we got into a fight with the enemy. Dummy caused a giant fire downstairs, so we locked the fire-doors from the outside and we're gonna wait for it to stop so we can shut it down later..."
She nodded. "Sounds fair. We-"
The Soldier suddenly looked up from the processed meat frying on the stove, pulling the rim of his helm over a his eyebrows.
"Hey... Do they want hot-dogs too?" he asked, pointing to the BLUs standing right behind Miss Pauling.
Miss Pauling turned to see three assassins standing behind them, all in crisp blue shirts, wearing weapons. Her feet scuttled back several paces, her stoic expression replaced with shock. The Engineer pushed himself from the table, backing away as well as he felt fear grapple his mind. There was the husky blonde, a man in a navy vest, and the Demoman's formerly headless victim. Everyone backed away slightly. Except the Demoman, whom of which boiled over with rage.
"BLASPHEMY! I KILLED YE!" the Demoman roared, accusingly pointing to the man.
"Guguguuugglle!" the man responded, a bloodied ring of bandages around his neck.
"We reattached it," growled the woman, holding a rocket launcher, "No thanks to you, you son of a bitch."
"Grrragggh... How many damn fights do we need?!" the Soldier growled, tugging his sleeves up to his elbows, "We JUST got the food out!"
"Oh, just wait until you get a taste of this," purred the woman, letting about three, glistening rockets loose into the kitchen.
There was a burst, and the sensation of being tossed into a void of bone-shattering floors and skin-searing heat. The Engineer felt himself plummet through air, and soon, that plummet transformed to one of his unconsciousness.
AN: DON'T YOU LOVE SHIT CLIFFHANGERS CUZ' I LOVE SHIT CLIFFHANGERS AND
Yeah. If you catch any mistakes, just lemme know. Seeya later.
