He blinked, and looked again to make sure. Yep, definitely looked like something crashed through here. He sniffed the air, smelling that familiar smell of something burnt, but it was chemical, with the nuance of that funny goop he'd had to slide around in. He grinned, at least he knew the fire-bug was somewhere around here. Looked like a pipe full of the stuff blew up.
The Sniper peered in cautiously, looking at the way the wall squares twitched and sparked, leaving a big gaping hole into machinery and darkness. It looked like this tubing ran for a long ways, and whatever was in it had blown up both its container and its close surroundings. It explained that big shaking earlier. That, and the woman had been quiet for a while.
He looked around, noting no cameras, no voice, and shrugged. If it was a trap, it was a trap.
Would sure beat staring at these whitewash walls all the bloody time.
He jumped in, landing awkwardly on a pipe, and jumped again even lower, to where he could see a few catwalks here and there.
He looked back towards where that dull white light shone in from the gaping tear, and grinned, turning his back on it, looking forwards to this mechanical jungle he had the luck to discover. Let's see if the good Miss had any more robo-beasties lurking around in here.
"Uh, Engineer, are you sure this is...good idea?" Heavy asked nervously, as the thing began to unpack itself in front of him.
"I know, I know, seems a bit much, and I really am sorry to ask it of ya," the Texan said consolingly, his voice echoing in to the room, talking awfully apologetic for being outside the chamber behind a sheet of thick glass.
"But She really hadn't given me—us—anyone or anything else to work with. Get done with what ya got, yeah?"
It was symmetrical as it rose, and seemed so much bigger, sturdier than the Aperture sentries, and more alive than the Company sentries.
"Er...does building 'charade' really need to be this convincing?" the bear-man protested, backing up as a red eye turned on its laser.
If he could see behind the man's goggles, he was sure the mechanic was blinking.
Twin guns unrolled like the sentry's, but with no discernible magazines. It was smooth, white, almost plastic-looking, and squarish in body.
"Charade?"
Its form was almost birdlike, except for its bulk, as it took a ponderous step forward on legs formed of cables and the flats made of cube parts.
A low, robotic tenor hummed to life, sounding almost peaceful as it locked on to the Russian, a red dot in the center of his forehead.
"Target acquired."
The Engineer watched calmly, not just taking in the efficiency of the kill. He noted the structure, the movement, the efficiency of the killer.
Where would it need to move around? What kind of targets would it need to prepare for?
The prototype was good, prolly what She was looking for.
But he could make more versions, though, and run them through a few more tests until he was sure he was happy with the design.
He smiled, already seeing some upgrades in the near future.
Then he frowned, "For crying out—Heavy, enough fighting, make it run! We gotta see the limits to this thing!"
He sighed, and looked at the white casing that was already getting a good deal of red on it.
Heh, that was nostalgic right there.
Hmm, maybe he was starting to take a bit of a shine to the color white.
"No, n-n-no-no-no-no—AARGH! Ya call that a freaking clear throw?! That missed by a—that missed by a mile!"
"Nrrd mrr fld th fthfng brrdl iffrn glff enuff!"
"Say that to my face, hotshot! Alright, here, I shoot dis over there, alright, you jump through, and get the Safety Ball, while I wait here, 'kay?"
"Uh-uh, yrr grrna grrdr thd dmm!"
"Uh, sorry, couldn't hear that through that big honkin' stupid gasmask!"
Scout scowled as the Pyro stomped off to its elevator, sitting in there and resolutely crossing its arms. This had been the perfect room to try space-hole volleyball, and his opponent was being too wussy to get the Safety Ball again.
"Look, hey, sorry about the gasmask jab, alright? Can we just try this again already?"
The Pyro snorted, making a show of picking at the prongs on its space-hole gun.
"I'll..." Can't believe he's freaking saying this, "We'll...try to make the net out of the goop set on fire, how 'bout that?"
The Pyro perked up, and Scout almost regretted his decision as it started chuckling. Almost. But hey, volleyball.
Yes, immediately tell a woman she was not as monstrous as her 'enemy' had described. Wonderful way to approach conversation.
He groaned, making to sit forward, but finding his movement impeded by...something...
He opened his eyes, and was met by a tiny fire in front of him. It was impressive, considering it was hard to find flammable material, and it was set up directly on this psuedo-concrete floor. He watched the flame for a minute, fascinated by the occasional greens and blues that flickered up from its dubious source.
He shifted again, and winced at the throbbing pain in the back of his skull, and now noting the numbness of his arms.
His arms were moved and tied behind him by his elbows and wrists by some strange elastic, wrenching his shoulders back most uncomfortably.
He spat out a curse, and glared forward when there was movement near the fire.
He blinked, remembering the events and persons responsible for landing him in this predicament, and observed his company.
She was, he blinked again, well, quite unlike other women he'd encountered, at least aesthetically.
(And he had encountered many, in much more pleasurable situations than this.)
She was not...ugly per se, far from it. But her countenance was, hm, a good way to put it might be raw.
The firelight cast shadows on the slightly sharp angles of her face, her skin was pale, though her hair was dark, if messy, and he thought he saw some Hispanic features. The color of her eyes was hard to discern, the way the light kept flickering, but they were steel, sharp, and incredibly focussed. What color were those eyes? Gray? Brown? Green?
He frowned, and nearly jumped as he realized she'd been watching him.
And she had stared at him this entire time without moving once.
He cleared his throat, regaining the professional composure he was well known for.
"Ah. Yes, I am awake. Please, pardon me for zhat introduction earlier. I realize it was rude of me."
He sniffed a bit, taking her own introduction into account, his head throbbing again, "And I will pardon you for yours, as well. I understand, of course, zhat ze matters of trust are delicate. Especially where She is concerned, hm?"
And...she said nothing, but an eyebrow was slightly raised. Her eyes were flicking over his face, sometimes to the wretched collar around his throat, especially when he spoke, and he had the most uncomfortable feeling that he was being scrutinized, analyzed, judged. He coughed again, "I also understand, somewhat, given your...history...zhat my appearance is unexpected, and indeed, novel. But..." he had to approach this carefully, "I, personally, do not mean you harm."
Her eyes were beginning to narrow, as he waited for a reply.
"Er, you do understand me, oui?" he asked.
The eyebrow lowered, and her chin lowered slightly, giving the universal expression of 'go on'.
That gun, the one he'd seen his comrades use before, was cradled against her chest, an area he quickly averted his gaze from.
One of her fingernails was tapping it thoughtfully.
He swallowed, and suffered a surge of indignation: how dare this woman be so obstinate? True, he was a technical hostile, and, for the moment, a hostage, but all situations followed a certain, well, ethical protocol. A sort of class.
There was a script to this sort of thing, and she wasn't following it.
He set himself, and stared evenly back at her, "Please, let us be reasonable 'ere. Zhese binds you have me in are admirable, indeed, I believe I have lost all feeling below ze shoulders. I would like to be on an even footing with you, so perhaps if you could release me, we could converse civilly? Anything I try would be ineffective with zhese bloodless limbs, and you certainly have ze tactical advantage here."
She still said nothing, and he quickly switched tactics, working up that smile that the women had often complimented him on.
"I am at your mercy, mademoiselle," he told her, putting a note of pleading in his voice, suave pleading, "Perhaps I could beg some of you?"
That impertinent eyebrow was back on her face, and she was—she was smirking?! At him?!
It was brief, oh, it was brief, but it was there. It was not a charmed grin, nor an anticipatory smile, it was a smirk.
She quickly settled back into a stoic façade, but her opinion was obvious. He was amusing to her.
His anger did not show, nor did his surprise. He simply settled back, smiling, shaking his head ruefully, "Eh, it was worth a try, non?"
She snorted, quite unladylike, rolling her eyes, and he kept himself from glaring. He had a bet she was American.
Indeed, though, that wasn't the only card in his hand. He had plenty more tactics in his arsenal.
Now, if only the bonne femme would say something. That was what She had stressed him most to bring about.
