((Oh, hey, it's an update! This is NOT an April Fool's joke. ;) I'm not nearly that clever.
((A quick word of thanks to my good buddy WiEGoP for proof reading (and also reading aloud, doing all the funny voices) and generally being the best beta I could ask for. She's also the one who's been prodding to not procrastinate so much, so you can thank her for this chapter getting the finishing touches.
((But enough of my rambling. Hope you enjoy. :)
xxx
"Vait!" But the Engineer had already disappeared around the corner, and the Spy was in imminent danger of slithering down into a boneless heap on the floor without the Medic propping him up. "Verdammt noch mal," the doctor muttered. "Vhat does zhat dummkopf zhink he's doing?"
The Spy re-adjusted his grip on the Medic's shirt collar. "If I were to 'azard a guess, I would say 'e's going after ze BLU." His knees wobbled underneath him, and his attempt to stand up straighter ended with him sinking another three inches. In doing so, he inadvertently (or, at least, the Medic was going to graciously assume it was inadvertantly) hooked two fingers around the Medic's tie and half throttled him.
"Stop zhat." Grumbling, the Medic disentangled himself from the Spy's clinging fingers and looped his friend's skinny arm over his shoulders, just as the Heavy and Sasha came pounding around the corner behind them.
The Heavy's relief was visible on his face when he saw them, and he rocked to a halt. "What is happening?"
"We 'ave an intruder." The Spy waved his free hand vaguely in the direction both Texans, RED and BLU, had disappeared. "Our Engineer 'as gone to deal wiz 'im."
"Alone?" Though it was left unspoken, the Heavy's concern regarding that particular tactical decision was clearly written on his expression. He didn't wait for his teammates to confirm the Engineer's questionable plan of action. His face turned steady, serious. "I will go help him."
"Err." The sudden burst of recollection caught the Medic off guard, startling the interjection out of him before he'd thought twice about it. Already committed, he asked, "Vhat... did you do viz zhe Demoman, exactly?"
A large thumb was jerked in the direction of the Intel room. "He would not leave room. I left him to guard briefcase." The Heavy started to edge his way past them. "That was good, yes?"
"Ah. Ja. Yes. Good," the Medic replied, miserably. He waved the big man on. "You should go help zhe Engineer."
When the Heavy was gone and the Medic had started to steer his charge back towards the Intel room, the Spy said, "I can go in alone, if you would prefer."
"I don't know vhat you're talking about."
"Doctor," the Spy admonished. "Now you're not even trying." When the Medic's only response was glowering silence, the Spy sighed. "I was zere, if you recall."
Oh. Right. The Medic grimaced, but didn't concede the point. "I vill have to deal viz him again eventually."
"Eventually does not necessarily mean now." If there had been even a hint of sympathy in that statement, the Medic would have swatted it down instantly. Which the Spy was no doubt aware of. Instead, his tone was simply thoughtful. Calculating. "Under ze circumstances, zis may not be an opportune moment to revisit ze issue."
"Zhis is my job," the Medic retorted, firmly. While he couldn't honestly say he'd never had a RED Demoman get in the way of him doing his job (a stubborn sense of duty was little protection against a minefield dotted with high grade explosives - a lesson he'd learned early on, in a manner that ensured it would stick) but he would be damned if he let one get in the way now, while they were on the same gottverdammt team.
"To babysit me all ze way to ze Dispenser? Non." He put up a hand to stop the Medic, and then reached out to put a hand on the wall, steadying himself. "I insist." When the Medic frowned at him, the Spy pulled his arm away from the Medic's shoulders and said, when he didn't immediately topple over, "See? I will be perfectly fine."
"But-"
The Spy made a shooing motion. "Go on and assist ze 'Eavy."
"I-" The Medic started to protest, and then hesitated. Technically, his brain argued, if the Spy could stand on his own, then he was unlikely to run into danger and die in the 50 some feet it would take him to get to the Dispenser. Stubbornly escorting him there would, with his luck, undoubtedly trigger another explosive episode from their mentally unstable new teammate, which would be detrimental to both the Demoman's mental health, as well as the Medic's physical well being. So, then, logically...
Zhat is a stupid excuse und you know it.
Which didn't stop him from grudgingly backing down. "Fine. Zhat... is a good point," the Medic grumbled, endeavoring to indicate with his tone that it wasn't, and that the Spy shouldn't think he could get away with this kind of behavior on a regular basis. "Zhen, I suppose I vill just go and make sure zhe ozzers don't get into any more trouble..." He paused, about to turn away, then jabbed a finger at the masked man with as ferocious of a scowl as he could muster. "Und I expect you to be in vun piece zhe next time I see you, for a change."
The Spy solomnly sketched an X over his heart with one silk clad finger and held up two more on the other hand, without the slightest hint of a smirk. "But, of course."
With a snort, the Medic turned on his heel and strode back down the hallway.
xxx
The Spy waited for a half a minute after the white tail of the Medic's coat had disappeared around the corner, just in case his stubborn colleague changed his mind and came back.
Then he sagged, slumped back against the wall, and slowly slid down into a sprawl at the foot of it with the smallest of groans. Resting his head against the cool concrete floor, the Spy fished his cigarette case out of his jacket and carefully snapped it open. Selecting a cigarette and then lighting it without lifting his head again, he slipped the slim case back into his pocket.
On his current list of concerns, the Demoman's discovery of the Medic's previous BLUness was near the bottom. The maurading BLU Engineer was also possibly not as high on the list as it should be, either, though it did rank at least amongst the top five. The Spy had to admit, it would have been higher if it wasn't an Engineer. After all, it was hard to imagine how this one might be able to pose a serious threat to his teammates (his own injuries nonwithstanding) but then again the Spy would have thought the same thing about a Scout. Nevertheless, he was reasonably confident their own Engineer could handle this with the assistance of the Heavy and Medic... and even if he couldn't, the Spy was in no position to do anything about it.
His highest priority, therefore... was to figure out how in the world he was going to get from his current little patch of comfortable, soothing floor, all the way over to the Dispenser, and somehow still retain his dignity while doing so.
Fortunately, that little problem had a simple solution.
And, on the bright side, the Cloak and Dagger worked best when it's user was moving very, very slowly...
xxx
The anger - equal parts of indignation and frustration - started to falter when the Engineer reached the foot of the stairs, which was about when self-doubt caught up. What did he think he was doing, anyway? The hesitation lasted no longer than it took to mount the steps, and determination spurred him to take them two at at time. If some harebrained BLU Engineer thought he could just waltz into enemy territory all by his lonesome-
The Engineer caught that thought by the tail, hauling it up short. Uh. Hang on. How sure, exactly, are we that he's-
"Beep!" said the cheerful little sentry, from the top of the stairs.
-alone. Dagnabbit, the Engineer thought, and ducked, arms coming up to try and protect his head.
When the Heavy caught up with him a few seconds later, the Engineer was flattened up against the wall next to the stairs, taking an analytical peek around the corner and up at the itsy bitsy Sentry, the muzzle of which was just barely visible over the top of the stairs. Doing a little bit of mental figuring, the Engineer was pretty sure the first few steps were out of it's range. Unfortunately, it's position gave the bitty thing plenty of cover.
"What is problem?" Rather than a question, this appeared to be the Heavy's mind processing the thought by a more circuitous route than normal, running it through the mouth to be filtered back into the brain via the ears. This hypothesis was based on the fact that even as the question was being asked, the Heavy was moving to peer around the corner and see for himself. "Hmph," was the initial assessment. "Is teeny tiny problem."
The Heavy hefted Sasha, but the Engineer held out his hand to stop him, shifting in between the bigger man and his intended target. "I don't reckon this is a four hundred thousand dollar kind of problem." He pulled out his pistol, holding it up, and added, "Let's try a fifteen dollar solution first." By his reckoning, the minigun probably would do the trick... eventually. But with the small target, steep angle, and significant cover, it'd be just wasting most of it's custom tooled bullets.
The big Russian gunner seemed to consider this, then nodded and settled back to let the Engineer enact his more cost effective strategy. Pistol versus small stationary target: It wasn't even a contest at this range. No more than half a minute later, the little BLU Sentry gun had fizzled and died. When the Engineer and Heavy reached the top of the stairs, though, it's creator was no where to be found. "Now, where'd he get to?" What kinda no good, lowdown Engineer just leaves his Sentry?
There was a sharp whistle and the BLU Engineer leaned into sight, just inside the door on the other side of the courtyard. The BLU flashed an amiable grin and tipped his cowboy hat to them, before disappearing back into the base.
In hindsight, the RED Engineer had to admit that he and the Heavy had reacted predictably, charging along the walkway to the doorway where their quarry had disappeared. As he barged through the door, the Heavy trailing a few feet behind, the Engineer was greeted by a sound that was becoming all too familiar.
"Beep!"
xxx
Self reproach nipped as his heels, though the Medic knew he shouldn't feel ashamed. This was hardly a matter of life or death, except possibly his own, and he wouldn't be able to help anyone if he let himself get murdered by a delusional Demoman.
Not that he could help anyone at the moment anyway.
That, really, was what bothered him. What was strange was the realization that, once upon a time, it would have actually bothered him less. Once upon a time, he'd have been able to smother the knot of gnawing worry with pragmatism and empty platitudes. Once upon a time, he'd have been able to maintain the distance necessary to not go utterly insane.
Then again, once upon a time, he hadn't known these REDs.
These stupid, over protective REDs. These idiots, who seemed hell bent on throwing themselves between him and harm's way. But that only made sense as a strategy if the Medic could put them back together again, afterwards, and he was not honestly sure if they would remember he couldn't, the next time there was trouble. Gottverdammt. He didn't have his Medigun, and now he couldn't even haul people back to the Dispenser to get patched up, for fear of being maimed by an insane Scottsman.
Instead, he was relegated to being a burden.
A useless piece of window dressing that had to be babysat by more competant fighters, because he was, let's be honest, basically terrible at dissecting things that weren't unconcious.
Enough was enough.
His feet had brought him to the bottom of the stairs while his brain had been occupied elsewhere. Now, however, his thoughts intruded on the automatic locomotive functions, which then ceased, waiting for further input. The Medic frowned up the stairs. All previous griping aside, he disliked the idea of just leaving the Heavy and Engineer to their own devices. Yes, it was just one BLU, but last night it had been just one Scout - at a time, he corrected himself, quickly - and look how that had turned out. On the other hand, if there was trouble, then the best thing he could do would be to stay out of the way. He'd be nothing more than a liability without his Medigun.
But there might be a spare, stashed somewhere in storage. It wouldn't hurt to go look. At the very least, he could do what he'd originally intended and cobble together some kind of emergency med kit to carry with him.
The Medic considered this thought for a moment, before quietly nodding to himself. Ja, zhat... should vork.
Having been given their new instructions, his feet turned the Medic around and struck a brisk pace in the direction of the Medbay.
xxx
The heckling was not helping the Sniper's concentration. Normally, the professional assassin could ignore the Scout's obnoxious ribbing as a matter of course, but right at the moment, reminding himself that he shouldn't let the little wanker's jabs irritate him only made him more irritated. It was a nasty spiral, and one that would only come to a satisfactory conclusion when he'd blown the bloody head off his BLU counterpart, across the moat.
At least the Sniper didn't have to wonder where the bugger was holed up. Bloody wanker had boarded up most of the windows of the center... patio? Shack? Auxillary building what was plunked smack dab down in the center of the battlements, whatever the bleeding hell you wanted to call it, the point was, the wanker had boarded it up. The Sniper wasn't sure if that was technically against the rules or not. He thought there had to be something in the rule book about tampering with the battlefield, but then again... maybe not.
Well, as soon as he'd taken care of this wanker, he'd see if Truckie'd help him board up their side, too. It'd be nice to have a little bit of bleedin' cover.
The rifle across the moat cracked again, and his hat went flying. Again. And, again, the Sniper reflexively ducked and stepped back out of line of sight of the BLU battlements. He stood there, still as a statue, as he quietly wrestled with the overwhelming desire to break something.
"Y'know, you've really got him on the ropes now. I can tell." The obnoxious little gremlin that was his teammate had dragged over a barrel from somewhere and was now perched on it, watching the Sniper's string of failures unfold with a merciless grin. "Maybe you should try edgin' out reeeeeally slowly, I bet he wont see that one comin'. Y'know. Again."
This made ten times. Ten bloody times. This was long past being a coincidence, long past being simply a matter of luck, and it certainly wasn't missing. This BLU was bloody well toying with him, and so far the Sniper had been unable to get off even a single shot in return.
The best part- the absolute, bloody perfect, bleedin' cherry on top, was his own personal peanut gallery, standing by to provide helpful commentary throughout the whole thing.
"Doin' okay there, champ?"
Something in the deep dark behind his eyes finally snapped. The Australian assassin set his jaw and stepped out into the open, ignoring the half-stifled protest from the Scout. He glared across the moat at the opposing team's battlements, daring the other to take a shot at him, then stooped and swept his hat up from the ground in one defiant motion.
Keeping his gaze locked on the squat, tin roofed patio, glowering into the shadows between the boards that had been nailed across the windows, the Sniper pointedly settled the hat back on his head. No shots rang out. There was nothing but silence from the BLU team's battlements.
Until the Sniper gave a sharp nod of satisfaction and made to step into the safety of the corregated metal barracade. Then, the shot split the silence open like a bark of laughter at a funeral. His hat flipped off his head and twirled to the ground, melodramatically, like the last leaf of autumn making it's graceful descent to the frosty ground, accompanied by sad piano music.
Muscles moved under the calm mask of unaffected professionalism that the Sniper normally wore. Something very much like madness roiled under the surface, made momentarily visible in the sudden tension of his jaw, the twitch of an eyelid, the brief curl of a lip. Then his face stilled, lines smoothing out, his normal detached expression reasserting itself. He let out a slow breath through his nose.
The Sniper stooped once more and snatched the hat off the ground. This time, he didn't bother putting it back on his head until he was back behind cover. Without so much as glancing in the Scout's direction, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and stalked towards the door.
"Wait, you're giving up? Aw, c'mon... this was just gettin' good!"
The sound of feet behind him suggested the Scout had hopped down off his perch and was following. The Sniper didn't dignify this with a response. Of course he wasn't giving up.
He was just getting started.
xxx
The hallway that led to the RED Intel room, current location of their only Dispenser, was a lot longer than the Spy remembered it. Then again, he'd never taken such a leisurely stroll down it before. At the moment, the maximum speed that he was capable of resembled something close to an inebriated, one-legged kitten. Anything faster than that, and the unsteady sway of the ground under his feet became too much to compensate for. Getting vertical without assistance had been difficult enough the first time. The Spy didn't fancy the idea of attempting it a second time.
Which made the arrival of the doorway a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant he was that much closer to his destination. On the other hand...
The Spy leaned on the doorway and contemplated the open space between him and the Dispenser. The prudent course of action would be to continue to follow the wall and take the longer route to the magical healing science machine. But that was precious minutes wasted, while events unfolded elsewhere without his expert supervision. That could be... problematic.
Clearly, there was only one route he could choose.
Fifteen seconds later, the Spy realized he had make a terrible mistake. The floor did not appear to be solid any longer. Instead, it was made of some strange gelatinous substance that gently rolled and dipped beneath his feet. However, when he fell face first onto it, he discovered the ground was not made of the soft jelly that it appeared to be. Zis ground is a Spy, the Spy grumbled silently, wrestling with the urge to writhe in pain from the shooting pangs travelling up his arm from his elbow.
It took a moment or two before he could coerce his body into continuing on. Biting down on a groan when it tried to slip past his teeth, the Spy began making his way, carefully, painfully, across the carpet on his hands and knees. So...Not been my best plan, true. But, on ze ozzer 'and, it could be worse. Zere could be a Sniper wiz annuzer jar of piss...
Suffice to say, that first moment that the Spy reached the edge of the Dispenser's range was pure bliss. Alone and invisible, he allowed himself the indignity of simply collapsing on the floor and waiting for the delightful device to make the spinning stop.
However, as his head began to clear and thinking began to come easier, the Spy realized something that he might have overlooked, if not for the unusual perspective his current position allowed him. He was not alone. There was someone hiding under the desk. He could see them, or at least the parts of them that were visible in the few inches between the bottom of the desk and the ground.
Someone... Well, if it took him three guesses to figure this one out, he'd be a disgrace to the balaclava.
Easing himself up onto one elbow, the Spy settled into a more comfortable position. Flicking ash off the invisible end of his cigarette, he spoke, conversationally, into the silence. "Bonjour, Monsieur Demoman. Are you enjoying ze view down zere?"
The Demoman's feet jerked like a man startled, but otherwise, there didn't appear to be a response forthcoming.
The Spy tried again. "I would zink ze chair would be more comfortable."
"Shut up." It was a whisper. "Shut up, shut up. Yeu're dead."
Ah. A complicated position to start from, to be sure, but on the bright side, at least it was a response. A response was something he could work with. Testing the effects of the Dispenser, the Spy eased himself up onto his feet. When the ground showed no indication of continuing it's previous shenanigans, he sidled over to the desk and decloaked. Leaning ever so slightly into view, the Spy said, "I realize zat I may not be ze most reliable source, under ze circumstances... But, I assure you, I am not a BLU."
Or, he would have been in view, if the Demoman had possessed two eyes. Instead, the Spy realized he'd have to literally crawl under the desk to be visible to their demolitions expert. That limited his options somewhat, as nothing short of a nuclear detonation would intice him to crawl under a desk of his own volition. "...as evidenced by my presence in ze room," he continued, as if that had been his intention all along. The Spy took a draw from his cigarette, then added, "From what I've seen, you are correct. Zey 'ave not attempted to enter."
The Demoman might not have been able to see him, but from this angle, the Spy had a good view of the other man's expression. His words seemed to be having some effect. The Demo was listening, at least.
The Spy gestured to the chair, ignoring the fact the Demoman couldn't see it. "Do you mind if I take a seat?"
There was a very quiet noise from beneath the desk. It wasn't quite a laugh, more like an exhalation that was laugh-shaped. The Demoman's expression screwed itself up, as he tried to marshal his defenses again. "Mebbe yeu're not one o' 'em, lad. But yeu're still dead. Yeh jus' don' know it yet." He hunkered his head down further between his shoulder. "Aie'll have nuthin' t' do with yeh."
The Spy decided to interpret this answer as "Not at all! Please, go right ahead." He settled back into the chair and propped one ankle up on his knee. "I believe I've spotted it, as you put it."
Another of those incredulous, not-quite-a-laughs. "Oh aye? Do yeh now."
"Indeed." The Spy inspected his cigarette, thoughtfully. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to let me tell you what I 'ave seen. And you can tell me if I 'ave missed anyzing."
There was a rustle under the desk, as the Demoman turned his head to squint his one good eye at the Spy, suspiciously. "An' why not just ask me what I've seen, boyo?"
The Spy arched an eyebrow. "Would you be willing to tell me?"
The Demoman scowled at him. Then he shut his eye and muttered, "Bloody hell... Fine, boyo, tell me yeur grim bloody tale."
And so the Spy did.
xxx
"Beep!" said the little Sentry, and the Engineer threw himself into reverse so fast he thought he could hear his clutch sputtering. He managed to get out of sight just as the automated gun took a tiny chunk out of the wooden door frame. Behind him, the Heavy was having trouble putting the breaks on fast enough, and nearly knocked the Engineer back out into the turret's line of sight. Grabbing the edges of the doorway, the Texan wedged himself against the momentum.
Which was around the time that the Sniper came into view, through the door that lay across the room. The lanky Australian didn't notice the tableau across from him at first, but the Engineer could see the exact moment that he did. The Sniper rocked to a halt, and his usual stoic expression became nonplussed.
The Engineer answered the unspoken question by prying one hand off the doorframe and jerking a thumb towards the unseen minature menace. "Sentry gun."
"Huh," the Sniper said. "Yours?"
The Engineer frowned. "Now, what kind a' question is that?"
"Wait, seriously?" This came from the Scout, who tried to elbow his way around the Sniper to see for himself. "You're tellin' me the BLUs snuck in and set up a friggin' Sentry in our base?"
The Sniper's response was to put one hand on top of the Scout's head and push the kid back behind him. His other free hand went to the rifle slung over his shoulder. "Right. Give me a mo'."
"No, wait! Dibs!"
"Nope." The Sniper brought the rifle up, and edged over to bring the Sentry into view.
"Aw, c'mon."
The Sentry beeped.
The rifle fired.
And the Scout muttered, "Killjoy."
The REDs filed into the room to inspect the remains of the little BLU Sentry. While the Scout absently toed through the bits and pieces of scrap metal, the Heavy asked, "Why so many tiny baby Sentries?"
"A distraction, maybe?" The Engineer looked up at the Sniper. "Either of you seen any other BLUs this morning?"
The Scout sniggered, which wasn't reassuring.
The Sniper's expression gained that particular quality that was immediately familiar to anyone who'd spent any amount of time in close proximity to the Scout. It was an expression that indicated he was currerntly trying to suppress homicidal urges, and it was one the Engineer knew from personal experience. "Just the other team's Sniper," he answered, through gritted teeth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, mate, I've got a job t' do."
Watching the Sniper stalk off, the Engineer frowned. Why do I get th' sense I'm missin' something here?
"Hey, wait up!" The Scout started to follow, but the Engineer managed to snag him by the scruff of his shirt and haul him back. He'd clearly been picking on the Sniper enough for one day, and besides...
"Hold up, kid. We're gonna need your help trackin' this BLU down."
The Scout seemed visibly torn, but when he brushed the Engineer's grip off and stepped out of arm reach, it was with an unconcerned shrug. "Yeah, okay. He's just an Engie, right? This'll be a piece of cake."
He felt the beginnings of that suppressing homicial urges expression start to creep over his own face. "Don't get cocky, kid," The Engineer warned him. "If he get's enough time t' set up a larger Sentry, you'll have problems."
The Scout scoffed. "And, what, you won't?"
Aaaand there it was. "Just watch yourself, comin' around corners, alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy." With that the Scout was off, dashing down the long spiral stair case that led back into the basement.
Which just left him and the Heavy, who was looking down at the Engineer with an expectant expression, apparently oblivious to the smaller man's scowl. "Should I go with tiny man?"
"Naw, no one's keepin' up with him. Let's make sure the sneaky sonnuvagun didn't make for the front d-"
There was a whirr from the top of the staircase that the Scout had just bounded down. The Engineer and Heavy turned, in sync, just in time to see another little Sentry gun starting to come on line. A white cowboy hat and a glimpse of a blue shirt collar were just vanishing around the corner, in the same direction the runner had just gone.
"What th-"
The Heavy swung Sasha around to bear down on the bitty Sentry gun. Before the tiny turret was fully activated, the minigun had riddled it with so many bullets that it resembled the kind of cheese the big man put on his Sandviches.
"Where th' heck did he come from?!" the Engineer demanded, even as he started after the rat bastard. And how in th' blazes did he get past the Scout?
xxx
The Medbay's storage room was exactly what it said on the tin: a room filled with shelves that were, in turn, filled with the random detritus of the quasi-medical procedures performed by the past (and current) Medic, or Medics, in residence. This one was a large square room of dark grey concrete. It would have been spacious, if it hadn't been filled with metal shelving, arranged into narrow aisles.
It wasn't a place where you kept things that were used every day, but it was a good place to store the bits and pieces you'd needed once and might need again, some day in the future.
It was lit only by a single dangling lightbulb. While it may have lit up the nearest shelves, all it really accomplished was creating extra pools of shadow in the corners of the room. Nevermind, he told himself. He wasn't looking for something small, after all. He should be able to find a bulky spare Medigun, even in the dark.
He'd just strode past two shelves of clamps, forceps, rubber tubing and copper wire, all of various sizes, when he heard something clatter behind him. That, coupled with the realization that the light had already been on when he'd entered, would have been enough to spark his paranoia.
But what crystalized the suspicion into true adrenaline pumping alarm was the whispered,"Ohshit."
The Medic spun around and accidentally backed into a shelf. It wobbled. "Is somevun zhere?" Vhat a stupid question. No, of course zhere is no vun zhere, I'm sure zhe voice you heard vas just an auditory hallucination. But, come to think of it, the voice had sounded familiar. "...Scout? Vas zhat you?"
There were a few seconds of panicked silence and then, from out of the shadows, a young man's voice with a thick Bostonian accent said, "Uh, y-yeah! Yeah, it's, uh, it's totally me. I was just, uh, um, lookin' for... for bandages or somethin', y'know. Boring stuff." There was a shuffle of feet, and shadows moved behind the shelves on the other side of the room. "A-anyway! You, uh, you look really busy, so, y'know, I'm just gonna let you get back to it..."
That was officially 100% completely and absolutely unreassuring. The Medic started to carefully inch his way towards the door. "Ah." He'd been trying for casual, but knew he hadn't succeeded. "Ja. I vill just... do zhat."
For a moment, it looked like that might just work. The Medic was about to make a break for it, when the voice said, "...yeah, you are totally not buying that, are you. Crap."
There was a noise from the darkness that the Medic didn't immediately recognize. It wasn't until the first shelf toppled over and crashed into it's neighbor that he realized it had been the sound that a metal shelf made when someone threw themselves against it. Like an enormous line of dominos, the shelves nearest to the door came crashing down on top of each other, effectively cutting off the Medic's only escape route with an avalanche of sound, a culmination of clattering metal, shattering glass, and the rattle of pill bottles.
The cacophany had just died down, when he heard that first noise again, the one that had started it all. This time, it came from his left, at the end of the row of shelves he was currently standing between. Scheiß! Heart thudding painfully in his chest, the Medic scrambled to get out of the way.
He didn't make it.
The scrambling was, quite literally, his downfall. He tripped over his own feet, and went sprawling. The shelf next to him creaked and began it's slow, majestic fall, and out of pure blind panic, the Medic rolled away from it, wound up on his back, and had the perfect view of his immiment doom as it descended upon him.
Alright, the Medic admitted a few seconds later, when the crash was occompanied by less pain than he'd expected, zhat vas a little over dramatic. The shelf probably wouldn't have killed him, at least not instantly. He'd just have been bleeding internally from several crushed organs. If it had hit him, that is. Fortunately, there wasn't enough room for the shelf to fall flat on the ground, and the Medic had wound up wedged in the small space left between it and the floor.
On the bright side, his initial assessment seemed to indicate he was uninjured. On the downside, he was pinned. Unable to move. Trapped. In a room with someone who had just tried to crush him under a mountain of shelving and medical equipment. As these facts started to sink in, the Medic's efforts to free himself increased in urgency.
Glass crunched under the sole of a scuffed running shoe, jerking the Medic's eyes towards it. His gaze travelled up, past white socks, baggy shorts, and a light blue t-shirt, and stopped dead at the twin barrels of a scattergun. He was vaguely aware of the face somewhere behind and above the gun, but that seemed like an unimportant detail, just at the moment.
"Vait," his mouth said, routed directly from his sense of self presevation, bypassing dignity and most of his higher brain functions. His shoulderblades seemed to think they should be able to dig through solid concrete, because they were certainly trying. It was as if each and every individual piece of his body had a life of it's own and, up until now, had merely been allowing him the illusion of being in control. Now, nothing was listening - not to him,nor to any other particle or system: his lungs had frozen in terror, ignoring the increasing demands for oxygen; his heart, by contrast, was working overtime; and in general, every part of his body that thought it had a reasonable chance of getting away was attempting to do so.
All in response to the two little words that had flitted across his brain, as recognition lit up his synapses: BLU. Scout.
A second passed, and then another, and the gun still hadn't gone off yet. After the third second, the remaining shreds of his dignity waded through the fog of adrenaline and terror, dragging the last remaining survivors of his higher brain functions. Chief amongst these was resignation. It set his jaw, gritted his teeth, and just barely managed to gain a flimsy hold over his rebellious muscular, circulatory, respiratory and nervous systems. If he was going to die, then fine. But, he'd prefer not to do it whimpering like eine fraulein.
That was when the Medic noticed the barrel of the gun was shaking, ever so slightly.
"Crap," the face behind the gun muttered, under it's breath, and then, "Crap, crap, crap. Okay. No, okay, I got this..." As the Medic braced himself for the inevitable, the BLU Scout took a step closer and said, in a louder voice, "Right! Okay! Listen up, pal. I am surrendering to you. Got that?"