As promised we're back to the BLU Spy now!

Looking at my plan, I hadn't planned to properly explain how Sniper ended up on death row for at least another fifteen chapters. I'll probably refer to it in places before then, though I'm not sure yet how much of the story I'll giveaway. On the bright side, you'll find out about the guy the Heavy reminds the Sniper of sooner than that; possibly in six chapters. Knowing how short mine tend to be though, it might end up being a bit more than that.

The Blu Spy's night wasn't nearly as interesting as the RED Sniper's. In his base the Mercs rarely gathered together to eat. The only regular exception was Sunday lunchtimes, when the Engineer insisted on cooking for all of them. Few of them enjoyed each other's company, but they always turned up all the same. The Engineer's cooking was worth a few arguments and smashed plates. It was also the only decent meal some of them had in the whole week. The Spy had no idea how a group of mercenaries could be so incompetent at something as simple as cooking. He of course always prepared a proper meal for himself after each battle. He had to keep his ingredients and leftovers locked away in a miniature fridge in his room, which was a hassle, but the only way to stop everything from being stolen.

That night he prepared himself a modest meal of chorizo carbonara, watched avidly by the BLU Scout. The boy acted like a dog begging for scraps. It didn't work. The Spy had no idea why he bothered, the masked man had never once freely given his food to him, though he suspected he'd been the one to steal it on an occasion or two. Besides, all he generally had to do was cheep like a hungry baby bird at the Engineer for a while, and he'd usually end up with something to eat.

When the Spy had first noticed those two getting close he'd been intrigued. Was their good, honest Christian Texan lusting after the innocent young Scout? Sadly not, it appeared. The truth was far more humdrum than that. It would simply appear they just had some kind of sickeningly sentimental father-son type bond going on.

The Spy had spent enough time, well, spying on them to be able to understand it. The Scout was the son of some low-class escort, the type who tried to set herself up as something more than just your average prostitute but didn't really have the class. The Spy would know, he'd slept with enough fancy escort girls. And the Scout's mother.

The Scout's mother's line of work had lead to there being very little in the way of strong male figures in the boy's life, and certainly nobody he'd call 'Dad'.

Then along came the Engineer, a calm, quiet, older man who'd sit and listen to his chatter no matter how inane, and give him advice without mocking him for his questions. That was in stark contrast to the rest of the men on the BLU team, most of whom ignored the Scout as much as they could, and were likely to punch him if he became too much of an annoyance. But there was always kind ol' Engie who he could go to when he was upset and angry, who'd appeared perfectly happy to hear all his whining and complaints.

It took the Spy longer to work out what the Engineer was getting out of the deal, but eventually he figured it out. The RED Engineer was better than him. He was cleverer, fitter, meaner, faster, younger and better looking. In short, he was the BLU Engineer's superior in every way. And they both knew it. No matter how hard he tried, the BLU was no match for his counterpart. It wasn't that he was a bad Engineer, just that his rival was a much better one. The Spy had watched his team mate's confidence in his own abilities chaff away under the strain of his own inadequacy. The kicker was probably the unspoken disappointment of his own team. They knew he wasn't good enough. Everyone knew he wasn't good enough.

But then there was Scout, stupid little Scout who would watch him poring over his new blueprints with undisguised awe. The Scout didn't understand a thing about engineering, so anything new the labourer designed or built impressed him. The Spy himself didn't understand much about it either, but he was sure that engineering couldn't be as difficult as his team mate tried to make it look.

So the Scout got a father figure to listen to him and give him advice, while the Engineer got someone like a son who could look up to him with admiration and respect. It was all very disappointing to the Spy. So little room for blackmail.

As he shooed the Scout away from the hob and loaded his dinner onto his plate, the Spy found his thoughts drifting back to the only interesting subject around. The two new RED recruits.

He still hadn't put his plan for the Heavy, and by extension, Medic, into action yet. Should he do it tomorrow? Or Monday? He decided to wait to see how things were going in the next match before he decided.

Then his thoughts moved onto the new Sniper, and his fingers twitched around the cutlery in his right hand, as though he were holding his balisong and not a blunt fork. He still hadn't had chance to see his mark. As he left the kitchen for his room, the Spy promised himself he'd rip away the bandages tomorrow no matter how much the Sniper struggled.

It turned out that was promise to himself the Spy was forced to break. The bandages were gone, that much was obvious. What wasn't so obvious from behind was how the cut had come out. Uncharacteristically, the Spy fidgeted on the spot. It wasn't fair, he wanted the chance to have a good long look at the scar before he stabbed the marksman in the back. The Sniper had his attention firmly fixed on a narrow hole in the wall in front of him, giving the Spy a wonderful view of his unprotected back, but not his face. Oh well, the Spy could adapt. Besides, he'd have time to look once the Australian was dead

The Sniper had set himself up in the second story of a building the old RED Sniper had favoured. This particular room was a long gallery with evenly spaced windows all along one side. Perfect for sniping from. But also very predictable. The new sharpshooter had shown a bit more initiative than the last, gauging a hole in the wooden wall with his kukri, and sticking his rifle through that. It afforded him a good view of the battlefield while making him almost impossible to spot. From outside the building, that is.

The Spy watched him crouched in the corner of the room, peering intently down his scope. Then the Sniper tensed. He was about to take a shot. The Frenchman should have stabbed him that second to protect his fellow BLUs, but he really didn't care much what happened to any of them. This time the man said nothing after the shot, so the Spy had no idea if he'd managed to take down one of his team mates or not.

It occurred to the Spy that that was out of character. When he'd watched the Sniper before, he'd muttered all kinds of little things under his breath, and berated himself for every missed shot. Now he was silent. The Spy continued to observe him as the marksman reloaded, watching the way his shoulders moved with the action under his shirt and vest.

After two more shots the Spy got fed-up of not knowing and stealthily approached the nearest window while cloaked. The shots were sporadic, as the BLU team's appearances were unpredictable, but the Sniper only missed one out of the six shots the Spy saw, and that one was aimed at the Scout.

All the while, Australian didn't make a sound. The Spy crept closer to him. From his new vantage point he had a good view of the Sniper's face. It was just a pity it wasn't the side he really wanted to see. Why did the sharpshooter have to go and choose the left hand corner of the room to hide himself in? All the same, the Spy found it interesting studying the man from this angle. So far in their interactions, he'd mostly seen the Sniper show various signs of fear, anger and confusion. Now he could see a look of pure concentration on the marksman's face. The corner of his mouth didn't so much as twitch as he successfully took down another BLU. No emotion showed in his eyes behind his tinted sunglasses. He looked entirely professional.

The Spy's eye slid down to watch the Sniper's hands as he worked. Long fingers cupped the underside of his rifle, keeping it balanced and steady. His right hand held the stock, his forefinger ready on the trigger. It was almost hypnotic watching him reload. He didn't even look away from his scope when he did so, relying on muscle memory instead. Looking at the purple half-moon shaped bruise under his thumb nail, the Sniper obviously didn't always get the motion right, but he didn't fumble with the cartridges or catch himself in the mechanism once in all the time the Spy was there.

There seemed to be something a little odd about the Sniper's right hand, and it wasn't until he paused with it flat against the stock of his rifle that the Spy worked out what it was. The last two fingers were distinctly crooked in comparison to the others. It looked as though he must have broken them at some point and let them heal without getting properly set first.

Observant man that he was, the Spy noted something else as well. Both his own team's sniper and the old RED one had had rough, callused hands. This one's hands looked curiously smooth. And clean. Even his finger nails were neatly trimmed and devoid of dirt.

All of this seemed to be at complete odds with the impression the rest of the Sniper gave him. He appeared to be the rough, tough, outdoorsy type, and he clearly did know how to use a rifle well. So why then, did he not have the callouses on his hands and ingrained dirt associated with the kind of man he seemed to portray himself as being? Was it just an act? No, the Spy doubted it. His skill with his gun argued against that theory, and what would be gained from pretending anyway?

It seemed more likely to the Spy that for whatever reason, the marksman must have had to turn his back on the hunting or sniping profession. Perhaps he'd became bored of that lifestyle and got himself a cushy nine-to-five office job. Maybe he was married with kids and his wife had made him give it up. He could have had to go into hiding after an assassination gone wrong. Or he could been locked up in prison for the last few years, for all the Spy knew.

Whatever the reason, the Australian was here now. The Spy wondered if he was glad for the chance to take up his rifle again, or if circumstances had just forced him to. A relative in need of expensive surgery perhaps. Or a substantial gambling debt he had to pay off. There were so many reasons a man like the Sniper could end up here. He could even be on Contract Zero. It was unlikely, but the idea made the Spy smirk all the same.

Eventually he grew tired of watching and decided it was time to act. He took a step towards the Sniper and then froze as the plank beneath his feet creaked ever so slightly. His target immediately looked up, scanning the seemingly empty room for threats. It took him several minutes for him to finally settle back into looking down the sight of his rifle.

The Spy waited a couple more, then lunged for the Sniper. He wasn't quite at the right angle for a proper backstab, and a moment before the knife would have entered his side, the Sniper flinched away. He was pressed into the corner now, his opponent still invisible. But the tiny sound of fabric-on-fabric gave him away, just as it had a second ago. He swung his rifle up and to the right, towards the place he thought the Spy must be standing. He was rewarded with a winded 'oof' and blue sparks as the barrel collided with the Spy's stomach. The BLU stumbled back, flickering into sight.

The Sniper's grip on his gun tightened as he tried to work out what his best next move would be. He could club his rifle; hold it so the scope was underneath and the stock could act as a bludgeon. It wasn't the way he'd usually treat one of his weapons, especially not a rifle he'd built himself, but respawn would fix it next time he died. He could of course, use the gun as, well, a gun. He wasn't holding it the right way at all for that though, and by the time it was brought to bear, the Spy could easily get past the long muzzle, leaving the Sniper defenceless. That left his kukri, securely strapped to his belt. But that'd take even longer to get a proper hold on, and from the fights he'd had with the Spy so far, he knew the man was as quick as a viper.

Which made him wonder why the Spy hadn't used his enemy's hesitation to his advantage. He looked at the masked man's face and grimaced as he realised what had caught the BLU's attention.

No. This is wrong. This is all wrong! That's not how it's supposed to look!

He'd carefully planned the Sniper's mark out. It had been a long time since he'd last had the chance to leave one, and he'd wanted to make it perfect. He'd decided to do things a little differently than normal, turning his back on the traditional diagonal cut across the cheek. He'd had a vision for this mark of his. Deliberate and neat. Straight and precise. Distinctive and easily identifiable. He'd wanted to take the act of physical maiming and turn it into a little work of art.

But this, this was not what he'd wanted at all! It was all raised and red and ugly, a great, brutal slash down the Sniper's face. It didn't fit the Spy's style at all; he was all elegance and class and the mark he'd left on the Sniper should have reflected that. The worst bit had to be the way it was tugging at one side of the marksman's mouth, forcing a unsettling little half-smile on to his face. The man already had two odd-coloured eyes, he didn't need anything to further reduce the symmetry. Perhaps the Spy should have thought of that before he left a scar on one side of the man's face. It occurred to the Spy then that he could always give the Sniper a second, matching cut on the other cheek.

No. No he couldn't. That just wasn't the way he operated. He was a professional.

Though perhaps, not all that professional. As soon as he saw the Sniper's expression change, anger welled up in his chest. How dare the man sneer at him like that? How dare he mock him further by forcing that ugly scar to twist to the side on his face like that? The mark should have been perfect. The Sniper must have ruined it somehow. Yes. That was it. He'd purposefully made the cut worse just to spite the Spy, hadn't he? Just so that whenever someone looked at his face, they'd think the Frenchman has messed-up. Well. He wasn't about to let he Sniper get away with that. He'd have to pay for what he'd done.

Even though he'd known an attack was coming, the speed of it still took the Sniper by surprise. One moment the Spy was still, just standing there staring at him. The next a knife almost gutted him. He fended the blade off with a swing of his rifle. He hurriedly tried to fix his grip on it so he could shoot, but as he'd predicted, the Spy got himself inside the Sniper's defences before he could manage. He pulled the trigger a moment too late, managing to do nothing but add another small hole to the wall next to him. The blade came at his again, and he grabbed hold of the hot barrel of his rifle so he could use the gun as a solid barrier. To the surprise of both men, the erratic stab left the knife trapped between the barrel and the scope. Immediately the Sniper twisted the gun in his hands sharply, forcing it out of the Spy's hand. He pressed his advantage, shoving his rifle into the masked man's chest.

Before he could do anymore, the Spy retaliated with a sharp roundhouse kick into his side. It turned out that being kicked by a man wearing poncey little Italian shoes really hurt. The Sniper had no time to wonder how he managed to kick like that at all without ripping his fancy suit, as another quickly followed.

The Australian lashed out at the Spy's leg with the butt of his gun, but missed, and before he knew it another kick sent him reeling backward. The back of his legs hit against one of the blown-out windows. For a horrible, heart-lurching moment he felt like he was about to fall out of it, like he almost had the day before. He managed to steady himself just in time to glance up and see the Spy smirking at him. The danger registered straight away, but before he could move a muscle, a foot slammed into his chest. A short shout of fear escaped him as he scrabbled for a handhold. It was no good. A moment later gravity claimed him. The back of his legs caught on the windowsill for a second, flipping him over as he fell through the air.

There was a dull thump a second later, then a long, low cry of pain.

The Spy peered down at him laying sprawled on his back on the ground. It amused the Frenchman to note he must have flipped over in the air with considerable force to have ended-up landing on his back. It was a pity that he landed on soft earth, and not the concentrate path a couple of meters away. If he'd landed on a harder surface he impact would probably have killed him straight out. It would have been better for him that way.

The Spy lit a cigarette and made his way downstairs.

He couldn't move his legs. His back must be broken. Could barely breath. Fractured ribs. Couldn't think straight. Head trauma. It hurt. It all hurt so much.

The Sniper put all his effort into just breathing. Small moans of pain escaped every time he exhaled. The sound gave him something to distract him from the pain. Gave him a way to express it. A way to release it.

He needed the Medic. Needed help. But he couldn't call for it.

His breath hitched as he heard slow footsteps approaching him. He knew it had to be the Spy. Nobody else would have approached at such a lazy pace or with such light steps.

The masked man came into view, looking down at him with idle disinterest while smoking a cigarette. It was as though the Sniper was a mildly interesting bug the Spy had spotted, rather than an enemy he'd just kicked out of a second story window. He crouched down next to the marksman and studied his predicament in silence.

The Sniper did his best to match the Spy's silence. There were many unpleasant words he'd like to say to the Frenchman swimming around his head, but he suspected that if he tried to say any of them he'd start making those little cries of pain again. He wanted to hide from the BLU just how badly hurt he was, even though he knew it was pointless. The Spy was no fool, and the Sniper couldn't move.

The masked man took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke into the Sniper's face. The RED coughed weakly, each motion jarring his injuries more. Tears threatened in the corners of his eyes. He tried to convince himself it was due to the smoke, but since he still had his sunglasses to protect them, it was unlikely.

When the Sniper was unable to muster any kind of retaliation against him, the Spy took that as a sign that'd it would be safe to touch the man. He pulled off a soft leather glove to expose his pale hands and ran one long finger down the scar on Sniper's face.

The marksman's eyes went wide at the unexpected contact, and he jerked his face away.

'Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me,' he rasped.

The Spy gave a small, mocking laugh. 'I really don't think you're in any position to be giving me orders, Sniper. Now, if you asked me nicely...'

'Fuck off!'

The Frenchman went from looking bored by the whole situation to enraged in a second. He grabbed hold of the sharpshooter's jaw and dug his thumbnail into the scar. The Sniper twitched, trying to pull away. He wished he could move his legs. Wished he could run. Wished he could even sit up.

'This is my mark, Sniper. This is mine. I don't know how you managed to let it get so disgusting. You ruined the perfect mark. But it's mine all the same.'

Though the pain was clouding the Australian's thoughts, he was still able to pull them together enough to feel incensed at the Spy's words.

'I—I didn't do anything!' he gasped, 'How that came out is all your own fucking fault. I didn't ask you—' He was forced to take a couple of deep, pained breaths before he was able to continue. 'I didn't ask you to leave a great fucking scar down my face! What is your problem? Why are you so—ouch!' He cut off again as the Spy increased the pressure, his nails digging in hard enough to draw blood under the Sniper's chin.

The marksman twitched again, a sharp movement that ran down his body. Under his hips, one of the buckles that held his kukri in place scraped against a loose stone.

His kukri! The Sniper couldn't believe he'd forgotten his kukri. He would have thought that landing on the bloody thing would have been reminder enough, even with it safely in its sheaf. Then again, he had lost all sensation about halfway down his back. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage to pull it out if he couldn't shift his own weight and his arms felt like jelly, but he had to try.

The moment his hand shifted, the Spy's attention fixed on it, like a hawk spotting a mouse in the field below. He spotted the hilt of the kukri as the Sniper reached for it and snarled, 'Oh no you don't!' He wrenched the Australian's arm away and tugged it straight with enough force to shift the Sniper slightly, making him yelp in pain.

A moment later he screamed.

He hasn't he hasn't hehasn'thehasn't.

Wave after wave of fresh pain rolled down the Sniper palm. He clenched his eyes shut against it and gritted his teeth, his breath coming out in short pants. Above him the Spy made a disappointed tutting noise. 'You brought that on yourself, Sniper. You know that, don't you?'

The Sniper ignored him, and using the last scrap of will he had left, forced himself to look around at his hand. There was a knife in the centre of it. The BLU's Spy's balisong to be exact. He must have pulled it free from the rifle before heading down. And now it was was standing up proud, wedged to the hilt through the Sniper's palm, pining his hand to the ground. His fingers kept wanting to twitch and flex in response to the pain, but that just made it so much worse. He let out a long, low groan at the sight.

'Oh, you bastard. You absolute bastard.' The Sniper's voice cracked as he spoke.

He was glad he still had his glasses on; he didn't want to Spy to see the way he had to blink so rapidly to fight off tears. Every bit of him hurt, but his hand was like an impossibly bright flare against the night sky. He'd never been in so much pain. And the worst thing of all? How utterly vulnerable he was. He couldn't move his legs. Couldn't move one of his arms. Could barely even lift his head. His free hand was balled into a tight fist.

A noise caught the attention of the Spy, and a moment later, filtered through to the Sniper. There were footsteps approaching. Two people. A voice said, 'I think it came from over here!' and hope swelled in the marksman's chest.

Medic!

The Spy looked up in alarm. Then a slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face. The Sniper tensed, waiting for the BLU to finish him off before help could arrive. But he didn't. What he did do was, in the Sniper's opinion, far worse than the knife to the palm. And much more unexpected.

The Spy leant over the Sniper and kissed him. He crushed his mouth against the marksman's, moving his lips against his as though they were sharing a moment of deepest passion.

'What?' an alarmed voice said behind the Sniper. 'Ahueyet?' said another, followed by the sound of a minigun spinning up.

The Spy cloaked.

Whatever the Medic said next was in a language the Australian couldn't understand, but he had a feeling that whatever he said wasn't polite. He rushed over to the sharpshooter. He didn't bother pausing to ask questions first, but said, 'Heavy, keep a lookout. Sniper, hold still. This is going to hurt.'

The Medic's words barely registered. He was too caught-up in his horror at what had just happened. He frantically wiped the sleeve of his free hand across his mouth, muttering through the fabric, 'That bastard. My god. I don't—Why? Why would he—shit!'

The doctor had clamped one hand onto his wrist, and his pressed a knee down on to his fingers. With one hard tug he pulled the knife clean out of the ground and the Sniper's palm.

'Shit shit shit. That hurt.'

'Shush, I know,' the Medic replied. 'But it's done now.'

He aimed his medigun at the bloody hand. The Heavy loomed above them both, his minigun spinning menacingly as he scanned the nearby buildings for any signs of the Spy and the rest of the BLUs. He glanced down at the Sniper briefly, his heavy brow knitted in concern and confusion. 'Was that pidar beshenyi doing what I think?'

'I don't know why! I don't know why he— One minute he was stabbing me in the hand, then he—he kissed me! I don't know why!'

'I do,' the Medic replied with a sigh. He didn't look at either of the other men as he spoke, instead choosing to inspect the Sniper's hand on both sides to make sure it had healed properly.

'He did it to humiliate you.'

'What? Well, it worked!' the marksman snapped. As soon as he said it, he realised it was true. Anger and confusion was replaced by hot, burning shame. Two of his team mates had just witnessed his worst enemy practically snogging him. Even though he'd done nothing to encourage the Spy's disturbing behaviour at all, he still felt deeply embarrassed about it. No, the Medic was right, humiliated was the word for it.

Trying to distract him, the Medic asked, 'Can you stand?'

'No. Back's broken.'

'Ah,' said the Heavy, as though this helped explain something.

'What?' the Sniper asked.

'Well, if back is broken, then that is why you not complain about the Spy's, ah, touch.'

'Touch?' the Sniper echoed. He was pretty damn sure that's exactly what he'd just been referring to, wasn't it?

'That pidar, he put hand on, well, between the legs.'

'What?'

There was a look of utter horror on the Sniper's face now. So not only had they seen the Spy sucking at his face, they'd also seen the bastard groping at his crotch.

The Medic made an irritated hissing noise in the back of his throat. 'Yes. For a man with so much pride, he has very little shame. I've written to the administration in the past about his conduct, but nothings changed.'

He moved the medigun down the Sniper's chest, sending its healing beam into his cracked ribs and damaged spine. He purposefully avoided looking up as he worked, ignoring the curious stare of the other two mercenaries. They were too new to know what past events had prompted the Medic to that particular course of action.

'Right. Are you done?' he asked once he'd passed the medigun up and down the Sniper's whole body. Carefully, the Sniper pulled himself up onto his elbows and slowly staggered to his feet.

'Yeah. I'm alright now. Um, thanks, Doc.'

'No problem, just doing my job.' The Medic dragged himself back up too, hampered by the heavy medikit on his back. 'Right, we better get back to the front line, Heavy.'

'And I better go get my rifle, it's still up there.' The Sniper gestured towards the room he'd fallen out of.

'Stay safe, Sniper,' the Heavy ordered as he and the Medic made to leave.

'I'll, uh, try,' Sniper replied. After a moment he called after them, 'Thanks again! And, um, sorry.'

'Sorry?' The Medic turned back to him for a moment. 'There is nothing for you to be sorry about. None of that was your fault.'

'We shall make Spy sorry,' the Heavy added with a growl.

As he watched them leave, Sniper managed to mutter, 'Yeah,' but he wasn't sure they would. That man seemed to be the devil himself. The marksman doubted he had the imagination or the sadism that would be required to do anything to the Spy to upset him as much as he'd humiliated the Sniper.

He turned away from his departing team mates and went off to retrieve his rifle. The sharpshooter suspected he'd be useless with it for the rest of the day, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets as he stomped up the stairs.

He couldn't stop his thoughts from drifting back to what the Spy had done. He spat on the floor and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He could swear he could still taste that disgusting man's vile cigarettes in his mouth.

Today had not been a good day so far.

As he picked up his abandoned gun from the floor, the Sniper found himself wondering if the Heavy and Medic knew that the Spy had continued to kiss him even after he'd cloaked.

This was where chapter ten was originally supposed to end. You can see why I ended-up splitting it. I think this one might have been the longest chapter so far. I do prefer writing shorter chapters and updating more often though. That said, updates may slow down a little now as I'm finally returning to updating an old, previously abandoned Alex Rider fic of mine after this chapter. I'll probably alternate between writing the two, though I might end up doing a couple of chapters of this to every one of the other. I'm going to be aiming to get both of them finished before October, but we shall see.

Thanks to this chapter you can see that the BLU team is definitely the more fractured and argumentative of the two groups. I feel kind of bad about that; I don't like it looking like either side are the bad guys. It just happens that the BLUs in this story don't gel as well together, and have a couple of the more unpleasant types on their team. Since the Spy is probably the worst of those, his views and opinions on his team are probably not the most reliable ones.