Loading CTF_2fort….
A second.
Teleporters took a second. Sometimes not even that.
You had approximately a second to figure out a plan before you reappeared at the other end and stepped off that glowing disk.
Not that Scout had a plan. Hell, he avoided things like plans where he could. Most of the time, the team's plans were boring and always assigned him to boring roles like intel capture that always took him away from the main fight going on in the middle of the map.
So when the light cleared from his vision and he found himself standing in the RED intel room, the Scout didn't even pause. Leaping off the disk of light below him, he wildly pointed his weapon before him, finger twitching on the trigger as he searched for his enemy.
But the darkened room was empty.
Lowering his gun, the Scout raised a hand to his headset and activated it.
Static.
Not the faint background static you got when you were simply out of range, but a hard, obtrusive static that made his ears hurt.
Ripping off the headset, he glared down at the device in shock, a sinking feeling going through him. He knew that noise too well.
Someone or something was interfering, no, blocking his signal.
What the fuck?
Shoving the malfunctioning set in his bag, he readjusted his hat and regripped his gun. He had get back to his base before anyone saw him.
The room was next to pitch black, with the only source of light being the pitiful orange illumination from the teleporter exit. There was something else in the room, emitting a low hum like some sort of computer bank.
Pulling out the flashlight from before out of his bag, the Scout flicked it on and scanned the room. Someone had tipped over the desk the intelligence usually sat on on its side as a sort of defensive blockade. Behind the blockade was a large computer of some sort, cables hanging off it and connected to the wall behind it, which had had all its plasterboard stripped off, revealing a web of wires and circuitry. Tucked in one of the corners of the room, the orange teleporter he had stepped off sat, arms silently whirring in preparation of another trip.
The rest of the room was empty. And silent.
Holding the flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other, the Scout quietly left the room, sneaking down the corridor and into the chamber beyond. His right trigger twitched in anticipation, his mind on the very edge as he waited for someone to make their appearance.
But there was no one. No one waited for him in the darkened room. Swallowing away his fear, he pressed on.
Where were they? And where was the RED team? Surely at least the double-crossing rat that was the Spy would know if his base was being invaded…
Shaking his head, he turned his attention to the room's layout. He had time to think about that later. He had three possible escape routes. One through the courtyard, one though the hayloft and one through the enemy respawn room and the battlements. His mind quickly turned over his options before ruling two of them out. If they had set camp anywhere, it would be the hayloft. It had both access to a respawn room and a view over the courtyard.
Turning to the right, he walked over to the corridor leading up to the battlements. From there, it would be simple. The same as all the millions of times he had been caught here, in this near exact situation.
The silence was unnerving. For the last five years, and even before that, the scout was used to there always being some sort of background noise, be it the chaotic orchestra of battle, the desert ambience of the Teufortian plains, the general, almost soothing din of a city or the low hum of computers and the other untold electronic marvels that dominated the lower levels of their bases. But here, for some reason, it was as deathly quiet as a tomb. No computers hummed, the battlefront about was missing the usual gunshots and cries of 'MEDIC!' that usually dominated it and whatever noises made by the night wildlife outside failed to penetrate to such deep levels. It was a silence that turned his slow and careful crawl to a walk, his walk to a run and then finally his run into a panicked sprint.
His path was dark, lit only by the narrow beam of his torch, casting strange and otherworldly shadows along the red and white walls as the light caught the imperfections of the wall and the other things attached to its surface.
As the scout rounded the final corner, the light caught at something on the ground, the harsh white glare from it temporarily blinding him as he sprinted forwards...
**SNAP**
Scout screamed.
He fell over onto the rough wood of the battlements, his left leg splayed out behind him, held back by what felt like a claw. It dug into his leg – warm, rich red blood dribbling down as the claw sliced through tendons and the thick line of scar tissue located there. He dropped the torch in surprise, its dull blue body rolling away from him out of his grasp and down onto the field below.
Biting his tongue and trying to keep back another scream, he jerked his head around to see what had ensnared him. His left leg was caught in a dull silver bear trap, a pair of metal jaws clamping down onto his calf with sharpened teeth of steel. His once white socks were stained red with blood, the excess blood spilling onto the dusty crimson floor. The trap was attached to the faded wood of the battlements by a thick stake driven into the ground, preventing the Scout from trying to wriggle away.
Letting out a muffled yelp of pain, he tried to pull his leg free of the trap, only for its teeth to dig further into his flesh. He had to get himself out of this, before someone found him, before…
Letting out a groan, he flopped back onto the floor. He felt tired all of a sudden and he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe it was the blood draining out of his leg at an alarming rate or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't had one of his energy drinks since…
Blinking rapidly, he tried to remember when the last time he's drunk a can of crit-a-cola or bonk! was. he'd a can before bed...had he had one when miss Pauling woke him up? No, he hadn't. He'd been too busy panicking about the Admin to get a can.
Whenever it had been, it had been too long ago. His mind was sluggish and the scout felt his thoughts slow as he tried to think of what to do next. Him mind was a confusion of panic and fear that was an amalgamation of fast and slow too nauseating for him to follow properly. He needed caffeine, but…
A noise cut through the still to quiet air and the Scout froze. Footsteps. Heavy booted footsteps rhythmically sounding against the dry wood of the base floor.
Adrenaline and fear suddenly took over, filling the gaps that his caffeine crash had left. He tried to pull his leg free, but he only managed to scream as the trap dug even deeper into him, causing fresh blood to flow down his bloodstained clothes in streams.
"Bloody 'ell."
The Scout stopped trying to free his foot and looked up.
Standing over him, a nicotine yellow grin plastered on his face, was the Australian.
"They should'a told me we were huntin' rabbits," He leaned down so that his face was inches above the scout's. "Would'a brought a snare."
The Scout recoiled from the man as he took ahold of his chin with a rough, calloused hand. His breath was saturated with the distinct odour of chewing tobacco, his jaw moving as he chewed the substance. He looked down at the scout with dull green eyes, full of a sick sort of glee at finding something in his trap.
"Who...who the fuck are you?" The Scout swallowed and met the man's gaze, his steel blue eyes clashing with the man's forest green ones.
"Who?" The man let out a low chuckle. "They call me the Trapper. Only man in the outback that can catch anything and everything. 'Cluding little varmints like you, bunny boy."
"Yeah? Well, I'm the fucking Scout pal," he grinned, brazen confidence taking over his fear. "Fastest thing on two feet an' the last thing you'll ever see pal."
The Trapper snorted.
"He was right 'bout you, ya know that? Ya just a kid. A little, smartassed, double-talkin' little wanker." he pulled out a large, curved blade that faintly gleamed silver in the slowly rising light. "Ya just a pathetic little cun-"
The Scout didn't hear him finish the sentence. He had already descended into the black purgatory of respawn.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of purgatory.
Thirty minutes of that silent, otherworldly hell. Thirty minutes of not knowing what was happening.
He gasped.
He was back in the real world now. His left leg still hurt as if the trap was still attached to it and his head was hurting from where the Trapper had slammed his kukri into it, but he was alive.
Sitting up, he turned his attention to his still aching foot. It was once again whole and pulling down the sock that cover most his calf, he could see that it was fine, albeit for the large scar running down the inside of his leg.
But that was normal.
Shivering a little at the deformity, he pulled the sock back up and got up. He had to tell his team what was going on, if they hadn't already dealt with the intruders…
Pulling a much needed can of crit-a-cola out of his bag, the Scout opened it and drained the contents in a single gulp. Walking out of the respawn room, he found himself in the hayloft and…
The Scout froze.
Down below in the courtyard, a small-ish fire blazed, casting the place in a warm yellow light that contrasted sharply with the purples and blues of the incoming twilight. But that wasn't what made him pause. When you lived with a pyromaniac, fires were pretty much the norm.
What made him pause was the figure at the fire.
Someone sat at the fire, and their silhouette was not one that the scout recognised. It was sitting cross legged on the dusty ground, back arched as sat hunched over, its head resting on one hand.
Cautiously, the Scout inched across the loft towards the landing, staying in the shadows cast by the fire. The figure was muscular, but not as muscular as the broad-shouldered American that the scout had seen by the fire in flagrun. Something was detailed on their arm and shoulder in blue ink, but the Scout wasn't close enough to make out exactly what it was. He (Scout assumed it was a he by its muscular figure) lacked the armbands the rest of the black mesa team, instead wearing a white tank top and a pair of black, thick work gloves.
He also appeared to be asleep.
Smirking, the Scout watched the sleeper for a few moments.
"An' what's your name pal? Heh, probably somethin' stupid like...Guard or Watchman or something." he mused, before retreating back into the shadows of the base. While this added complication was annoying, it wasn't something that was critical to deal with right now. Like any secret base worth its salt, the BLU half of 2fort had half a dozen other entrances and exits.
Turning back to the respawn room, the scout walked back into the white room and turned to the door that lead down to the training room.
Pushing open the door, he ran.
Taking the steps down two at a time, he landed on the polished linoleum of the training room floor, skidding to a halt before taking off again in the direction of the other exit out of the room.
Now in the base proper, he skidded to a halt and looked around for a moment to get his bearings. The basement corridor was silent in the early hour, its inhabitants blissfully unaware of the danger outside. The training room was at the very end of the basement corridor, directly opposite the communications room and next to the maintenance room.
Setting off at a sprint, he ran full tilt down the corridor, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking against the grey and blue vinyl floor as he ran blindly through the darkened hall. He needed to get to the team, to the admin and to the intelligence before they–
The maintenance door opened and before he could even register what was happening, the scout's run was suddenly halted.
He hit the figure coming out of the door, not so much hitting him as more tripping over him as his tall and lanky form awkwardly collided with the short and squat one of his victim.
He fell to the cold floor, his arm hitting the ground first and sending a short stab of pain through his body. Instinct took over his mind and he rolled to his side, pushing a foot against the floor to get himself into a semi-crouch, from which he sprung back up into a standing position.
"Scout?"
In a single, fluid motion, honed by too many years on the team, the Scout whipped around, pulling out his pistol from his pocket and aimed it at the man behind him.
Thankfully, the man was one he recognised.
His fear not yet abated, he lowered his gun, his mind still racing too fast for anyone to make coherent sense of.
"Scout, what in tarn–"
"Black Mesa!" He squeaked, taking a few steps backwards towards the stairs leading up to the rest of the base. "Theyreattattackinganwegottagetouttherebeforetheydosomething–"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down son." The engineer interrupted, trying to make sense of the Scout before he sprinted away again. "Ah can't–"
But the runner had already taken off again, into the darkened reaches of the base.
And then, mere moments later, the base exploded into a flurry of action and red wailing klaxons and the rest of the engineer's sentence was drowned out by the chaos.
and I'm late again. fuck. my bad though - I broke my left arm and painkillers don't make a good muse...