Sorry about the long wait on this chapter, guys, but this one was a paiiin to write. Fortunately I never have to look at it again, aha!

Chapter Twenty: Be Polite, Be Efficient…

"Buona sera, bella addormentata."

Sudden light dispelled the darkness of Spy's mind and he groaned, eyes still screwed shut. He kept his head bowed, breathing paced. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound to the chair he was strapped to. Every limb was numb, every muscle aching. But he didn't flinch when cold steel slid under his chin, smoothly forcing his face upwards. Finally Spy opened his eyes, glaring at Giancarlo.

The Italian smirked, lit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. "Per l'amore di Dio, sei un brutto figlio di puttana, eh?"

"Vaffanculo, e va anche tua madre," Spy hissed through clenched teeth, glaring up at Giancarlo.

Giancarlo tsked and shook his head before his calloused palm shot out, slapping the bound Frenchman across the face. Spy's head snapped to the side, and a low growl escaped him. The growl only heightened when Giancarlo tut-tutted, swinging a chair around and straddling it. He reached over and grabbed Spy's chin in his hand, bringing it roughly back to him. "See, Signor Vidal, you're lucky I need you to talk, otherwise I'd cut your tongue right out of your mouth."

What little color Spy had left drained from his countenance, and Giancarlo smirked. "Sí. That's your name, isn't it? Philippe Vidal. Nice name." He leaned down and picked up a red folder, tapping it against his palm. The faint flicker of Spy's eyes to the folder and back again didn't escape him. He grinned, smoke billowing out of his nose. "That's not the only thing I know about you, amico." Taking the knife into his hand once more, Giancarlo leaned over and made the smallest slice in Spy's left sleeve. Spy attempted to jerk away, but failed. Giancarlo worked the knife deeper, pressing the point right into his tattoo.

"Hmm. No service record for you, Signor Vidal. But you do have a very interesting criminal record." Giancarlo sat back, sliding the knife into his boot. He licked his thumb and began to flip through the red file. He leaned back into the seat, chillingly nonchalant. "You're wanted in the Philippines for larceny, the United Kingdom for drug trafficking, Sweden for identity fraud, Poland for aggravated assault, Austria, Hungary, and Bosnia for assassination, the U.S.S.R. for attempted assassination…Canada for murder, Mexico for arson, and," Giancarlo's bushy eyebrows flew into his hairline, "the state of Massachusetts for jaywalking."

A corner of Spy's mouth twitched upwards. The faint smile faded, however, when Giancarlo sneered, reading through the file once more. "You have yourself an impressive number of contacts and skills, Signor Vidal. So, my burning question is…" he leaned forward once more, hands clasped together, "what are you doing here?"

Spy's eyebrow quirked.

Giancarlo leaned forward, hand sliding towards the hilt of his knife. "You think you can just waltz into my factory and take what belongs to me? Life doesn't work like that, my friend. So, who are you working for? Team Fortress Industries? Black Mesa? Not that idiot Johnson?"

Out the knife came again, sliding along Spy's jawline. Spy kept still, staring straight into Giancarlo's eyes. Giancarlo leaned in. "Spies do not just come poking around because they're curious. I'm going to get the truth from you, Signor Vidal, one way or another."

He stood, pulling a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket and snapping them on. He stooped down, and when he straightened again there was a solid wooden baseball bat in his hands. Giancarlo tapped the bat to one of Spy's knees. "I have a dispenser just around the corner. You know what that means?"

Judging by the way Spy's eyes flashed in a mixture of panic and horror, and the sudden intake of breath that he couldn't control, he did. Giancarlo stomped his cigarette underfoot and tightened his grip on the bat. "It means we can be here all night."

The Spy stayed stubbornly, infuriatingly silent.

…

The palms of his hands were slick and sweaty as Blake adjusted the tool belt around his waist. The wrench in particular seemed to be giving him a hard time, as he picked it up and slid it back down into numerous spots.

"Calm down, son!" Delmond cocked an eyebrow at him, sipping his coffee as he did so.

Blake froze on the spot. "Sorry, sir." Instead he began to fiddle with the hardhat on his head. "Erm…I'm just going to go practice building sentries, okay?"

Delmond's eyebrow remained high in puzzlement. "Not interested in…?" He gestured towards the computer screen.

The sound of a snapping bone, followed by a hoarse cry of pain, emitting from the screen just made Blake shake his head faster. "No. Violence isn't really my thing, y'know? Live long and prosper and all that?" He held up a gloved hand, splitting his fingers into a geeky salute. He tried to smile, but only wound up looking sick.

Delmond sighed and shook his head, muttering under his breath about "television ruining the minds of kids these days".

Blake waited until his back was completely turned before sliding the wrench out of his belt. His fingers coiled around the tool, breath bated, and crept up behind Delmond.

The Texan didn't have time to suspect a thing before the wrench had smacked the back of his head, knocking him out instantly and sending the hefty man pitching forward. Blake stepped back, gasping and clutching a hand to his heart.

He was surprised that had even worked.

With Delmond out of the way, Blake sprang forward and typed a quick code into the computer. Instantly the buzzing screens—including the one with Giancarlo and the Spy—went dark.

With the deed done Blake stepped back, quivering with nerves. He fiddled with the hat on his head once more before darting out, throwing an apologetic "Sorry!" to the unconscious Delmond as he did so.

…

"Do the gates normally open automatically?"

Christian glanced into the rear-view mirror at Jack, eyebrows arched. The mustachioed man hesitated, and then shook his head. "No. You have to swipe your ID card…"

For an instant the van stalled as Christian considered the open gates. Then he inched the van forward slowly, grip on the wheel pale-knuckled.

It passed through the gates unharmed, and the group let out a collective breath of relief. Lizzie leaned back on the bed, rubbing her stomach absentmindedly, and it took all of Christian's self-control not to sneak glances at her in the rearview mirror.

Sniper noted his twitchy behavior, but misinterpreted it by a long stroke. "Don't worry. We're gonna be fine."

Christian looked to him and nodded, mouth twitching upwards a bit. "Of course we are. I never said otherwise." He pulled the van through into the parking lot and shut it off with a smooth flick of his wrist. "C'mon."

Jack offered his hand to Lizzie, but she swatted it away and clambered down out of the Mundymobile herself, balancing herself with confidence. Sniper, on the other hand, moved with a slow deliberateness that suggested a man twice his age and half his vigor. The bushman kept his face stoic, but Christian's sharp eyes saw every subtle twitch and quiver, the way his jaw tensed with each passing motion.

For an instant, Christian wondered if it was Phil's bloodied and battered body they'd be dragging home after all.

He didn't have time to dwell on the possibilities, however, because Sniper and Jack had bounded up to the employee entryway and Sniper was all but bouncing from impatience as Jack jammed his identification number into the number pad. After an instant the light above the entrance blipped green, and a metallic feminine voice cheerfully welcomed Jack Williams in.

The instant they were in the cool darkness of the factory, Sniper drew Spy's revolver from his pocket, cocking it and holding it with a cool nonchalance. Lizzie watched her brother's eyes go cold and emotionless in a mixture of admiration and terror.

"They'd take Phil someplace quiet, someplace secure." Sniper looked Jack's way. "Well?"

"Erm…I'm not sure…"

"WELL?!

He'd forgotten about going unnoticed, and the thunderous echo that followed Sniper's shout reverberated back to Jack tenfold. Sniper didn't turn the gun on him, but Jack was certain he dearly wanted to. He cleared his throat and scowled. "Lower levels. Testing facilities, probably—"

"MISTER LAWRENCE MUNDY, SIR!"

The shout caught them all off-guard, and Blake was forced to duck as a bullet ricocheted off the wall beside him. He yelped, throwing his arms over his head and cowering back as Sniper advanced on him.

Lizzie was behind him immediately. "Lawrence! You nearly killed him!"

"Trust me, Liz, if I wanted to kill him that bullet wouldn't've hit the wall. That was a warning, boy. I'm not playing games." Sniper bent down and hauled Blake up by the collar, glowering down at the shivering youth. "What are you doing here, Blake?"

At the mention of his name Blake brightened considerably, and seemed to forget that Sniper had just shot at him as the words left him in a rush:

"Wellyouseeyourfriendisinreallybiglikesuperhugetro ubleandI—"

"English, lad!" Sniper interjected, a bit concerned at the bluish hue Blake was turning.

The blond froze, took a breath, and began anew: "It's your friend, Mister Lawrence, your friend Mister Vidal—urk—" Blake squirmed as Sniper's grip on him tightened like a vice "—Giancarlo has him! Two floors down, Testing Room 314!"

His green eyes were wide and terrified, and that was why Sniper decided to trust him. One factor still weighed heavily on his mind, however. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because—"

And here Blake froze. Because he couldn't rightly explain to the tall, rugged, enormously impressive bushman that in all the time he'd been here, Sniper was the only one who had given him the time of day without a sneer thrown in. How could he possibly explain that Sniper shoving a fistful of dollars into his hand when he was drunk off his arse was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him? "Because…because it's the right thing to do! 'sides, I'm too handsome for prison!"

The answer wasn't complete, but it was satisfactory enough for Sniper, who released Blake from his iron grip. There was a glint in the Aussie's eye as he stepped backwards. "Liz, Jack, stay here. Chris, gimme the sniper rifle."

Christian obliged by tossing it to him. Sniper caught it easily and turned to go, but was interrupted by a question from Blake. "What happened to you?"

The boy's eyes were roving over Sniper's battered frame in fascinated horror. When he saw Blake's expression, his mouth pulled upwards into a cool smirk. "Wrestled a crocodile."

Blake's eyes might have been made of emeralds for all that they shined. He was too star-struck to move, so it was Lizzie who went next: "You two be careful, all right? Be polite and be efficient, isn't that your motto?"

There was more to it, but Sniper didn't bother to mention the rest of his mantra. He just nodded. Lizzie nodded back, face pale. "Then stick to it."

…

The dispenser gurgled to life, Spy's gasp of mingled relief and fury echoing soon after. He scowled as Giancarlo's machine brought him back from the brink of death, closing over his wounds and mending broken bones.

Giancarlo watched, head tilted, as Spy's blackened eye slowly receded. "Round Two. You sure you can keep this up?"

"Continuez." Spy snapped, rolling his head around his shoulders and watching every movement Giancarlo made with the rapt attention of a predator.

Giancarlo shook his head in what might have been admiration before picking up his bloodied knife from the floor. "Maybe you'll be a little more willing to talk once you've gone without your senses, eh? I could leave you in here, deaf and dumb and blind. I've seen it happen before, you know. Terrifying—they kept trying to scream and scream…" He crouched down in front of Spy, tracing the point of his knife along his temple. Seething, Spy could do nothing but watch. "We'll start with the ears, I think—"

Spy was not a man who believed in miracles. Spy was not the man who had ever witnessed a miracle. And so, it was with great shock and even greater glee that he saw a bullet whizzing through the air and right through Giancarlo's fist, blasting clean through. And a split second later—before Giancarlo had time to even process that he was down a hand—Lawrence Mundy came barreling through the door with all the speed and fury of a pissed-off dingo, tackling Giancarlo to the ground and straddling him with one good fist wailing on him.

It was a regular Christmas miracle.

Christian was in the room in an instant, Spy's switchblade at the ready. His eyes locked on the bound Spy and he darted over, sawing through the thick ropes as quickly and as carefully as he could.

"You're late," Spy managed.

Christian snorted. "We stopped for dinner."

Meanwhile, Giancarlo had seized Sniper by the throat and threw him off, scrambling up as Sniper staggered to his feet. The Italian's fist connected with his stomach, and lashes of white-hot pain ripped Sniper in two. He bellowed, but was shortly silenced by a punch to the jaw. Disorientated, blood oozing from his abdomen, Sniper stumbled backwards, grabbing for the kukri at his waist. His hand locked around the hilt just as Giancarlo's leg snapped up and kicked him in the chest, sending him flying across the room. He hit the opposite wall with a strangled gasp, and sank down.

"LAWRENCE!"

It was a mutual cry from both Christian and Spy, and the instant the ropes bounding Spy snapped he was up and grabbing his knife from Christian. He lunged forward, dodged the bullet Giancarlo fired his way, and rolled to his feet, flicking the knife through his fingers with a stunning expertise.

For an instant there was silence, broken only by the labored pants of the down Sniper.

"Two against one," Christian muttered, reaching smoothly for the pistol tucked into his waistline.

Giancarlo snorted, eyes flickering between Spy and Christian. He cocked the gun once more and aimed it directly at Spy. "You brought a knife to a gunfight," he sneered.

Momentarily Spy's eyes flickered to something behind Giancarlo. He smirked. "Knife? No, mon ami, this isn't a knife…"

An arm was flung around Giancarlo's neck, the hand dangling as though it were broken. Nevertheless there was enough power and fury in that arm to choke Giancarlo as Sniper leaned in, his whispered words foul as rancid meat. "This is a knife."

The cold, biting steel of the kukri was slammed with full force and intent through Giancarlo's back, sliding out his front torso as cleanly as a hot knife through butter. A strangled cry of shock and fury left Giancarlo as he grasped at his bloodied front, but it was quickly by two bullets to the head. His head blasted into a pink mist, and his writhing, wriggling body drop to its knees. It pitched forward to the floor, finally still.

Panting, Christian lowered his smoking gun. "My dog died with more dignity than you, you son of a bitch."

The gun clattered to the floor just as Spy darted over Sniper, who had collapsed to the ground. The Aussie's chest barely rose and fell, and his eyes were open but vacant. Spy scrambled to find a pulse, cursing under his breath when there was nothing. "C'mon, Lawrence, you didn't come all this way just to die on me. Lawrence!"

When Sniper didn't respond, Spy hauled him up and all but threw him down by the dispenser, slamming his fist down on the pump that released the healing spray. It settled down over Sniper like a cloud.

For an instant Spy held his breath, heart hammering wildly, and he found himself praying to someone—anyone—that Sniper wasn't too far gone.

And then the Aussie took a huge breath, eyes flying open. Color seeped back into his profile, and he pressed a hand to the wound that was rapidly closing over. Stunned, he looked to Spy, who had let out his breath in a shaky laugh. "You moron! You could 'ave shot 'im in the 'ead to start with! Or at the very least, 'is balls! What 'appened to being efficient?"

"Thought you or Chris deserved the killin' blow," Sniper replied, voice hoarse. He swallowed a node in his throat as he glanced over Spy's ragged appearance. "You look loike ya been ta hell and back."

"Speak for yourself," Spy grunted, shifting slightly in his crouched position.

"Hmm. Still prettier than you." Carefully, as though still in pain, Sniper reached into his pocket and withdrew Spy's balaclava. "Put that on before ya make me sick."

Spy did so gladly, and as the cloth smoothed over his face his heartbeat began to lessen slightly. A huge invisible weight came off his shoulders, and he found himself sitting criss-cross in front of Sniper as his various injuries were nursed over by the dispenser. He tried for 'thank you', but for some reason it got stuck in his throat, and instead out came a gruff, "Took you long enough to get 'ere."

"Shut it, spook. I leave you alone for five minutes—five minutes!—and you went and got yourself spook-napped. Gonna have ta buy a bleedin' tracker for ya or something…" Sniper's eyes remained closed in exhaustion, but there was strength back in his voice, and after another moment he managed to open his eyes once more. "You all roight?"

"Oui. Are you?"

"Yeah."

Spy helped Sniper to his feet, and once he was there he looked better than he had in a week. He rolled his shoulders back, flexed his hands, and tipped his hat towards Spy in thanks before promptly handing him all of his weapons.

Spy cocked an eyebrow as his revolver and sapper were shoved into his hands. "Were you expecting a small army?"

"Yer the one who likes being over-prepared fer everything!—"

An argument was spared by Christian, who loudly cleared his throat. "If you two fellas are done with your awkward declarations of friendship, some of us would like to leave." He grinned as the two sheepishly shifted, agreeing quietly.

When they left they didn't look back, and so they missed Giancarlo's body fading silently into Respawn.

…

"This place gives me the heebie-jeepies."

"The what?"

"The creeps!"

Sniper grinned at Christian and Spy's exchange as the trio slowly made their way through the testing floors of the facility. Christian scowled as he opened one door, glancing inside. "I mean, look at this! What government is funding all this?!"

Spy and Sniper both glanced around his shoulder. The door he had just wrenched open led into a huge warehouse. And inside robots stood row-by-row, powered down. Sniper snorted and stepped in, walking up to one robot and poking it in the shoulder. "Damn machines, trying to take good, honest mercenary jobs away from hard-working folk loike us."

"Be realistic, Lawrence, it'll be years before they're up to our standard." Spy followed suit, tracing a line down another robot with his finger. He 'hmm'ed at the amount of dust left on his finger. "At any rate, they're not seeing any action."

"Damn bucket of bolts…" Sniper rapped one on the head, and the instant he did an alarming began blaring.

INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!

In a wave, the heads of the robots began snapping upwards, headlight eyes a bright red.

INTRUDER ALERT! PROTECT THE FACILITY!

All three men took a step backwards, and that's when they saw the forearms of the robots receding into the upper arms. There was a terrible clicking of a hundred or so robots as they simultaneously armed themselves. Their forearms slid back out, only this time, guns were attached to the ends.

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

Sniper pushed Christian and Spy out the door, and then slammed it shut just as the first bullet fired. The hallway was bathed in red, flashing lights and screeching alarms transforming the simple corridor into something much more horrific.

Spy shook Sniper's shoulder roughly, for the Aussie was still staring at the bullet-riddled door in horror. "THE DOOR! LAWRENCE, THE DOOR OUT!"

For the door at the end of the hallway was slowly closing of its own accord, and Spy was confident that if it shut all the way there'd be no getting out.

They darted to the closing door as gunshots rang out behind them, and that's when Sniper took Christian by the scruff of the neck and all but threw him through the door. The bartender stumbled and fell, turning around in horror to see that there was no room for Sniper and Spy to get through as well, and the words "TAKE CARE OF LIZZIE!" rang out just as the door slammed shut.

…

"So…come here often?"

Blake smiled blithely at Lizzie, who just shook her head and moved to sit next to her husband on the staircase. Blake huffed and went back to playing Cat's Cradle with the string he'd found in his pocket, suddenly disinterested in making conversation.

Lizzie rubbed her upper arm and stole a glance at Jack. "Hey."

Jack glanced back at her. "Hey."

"Are we…okay?"

"Is there something making you think we're not okay?"

"Well…"

It was at this moment, of all moments, that her treacherous brain chose to recall the kiss she had shared with Christian, and the way his hands had roamed over her body, gentle and reassuring. A warm flush crept up the back of her neck, and when she spoke again her voice was shaky, "It just seems like…we're growing apart."

Jack's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Do you really wanna do this now? Here?"

"If not here than where?" Lizzie hissed. At her tone Blake began to scoot up the staircase, eyes still locked on the thread in his hands. "Jack, lately it seems like the only person you care about is yourself! You haven't even looked my way since…since I started blowing up like this!" She gestured to her swollen stomach, tears filling her eyes. "I don't know what I did wrong! And the fact that we don't even talk anymore is driving me crazy! We've fallen out of love, Jack, and that's not supposed to happen!"

Jack shifted his stance a bit. "So what do you suggest we do, Liz?"

"I don't know, Jack! If it were anyone else I'd say 'let's fix this', but with you—you're a brick wall! An emotionless stone! I don't know what's even going on in your head anymore!" She buried her face in her hands.

Jack clasped his hands together and stared at her.

Above them Blake watched the pair with rapt attention, string strung around his fingers. He was about to offer his input into the whole situation, when the alarms began blaring. His head snapped upwards to stare at the flashing red lights in alarm. "Well, that's not good."

Lizzie stood quickly. "How not good?"

"Potentially very dangerously, decidedly not good." Blake returned, hastily stuffing the string in his pockets.

INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!

"Oh, and it just got a whole lot worse," he murmured.

At the moment, Christian came barreling out of a corridor, skidding to a stop at the base of the staircase. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a loud gasp. He doubled over, panting and grasping the stitch in his side.

It only took Lizzie a moment to realize what was wrong. "Where are Lawrence and Phil?"

"Trapped," Christian rasped, "back that a-way." He pointed down the corridor, still trying for breath.

Blake was beside him in an instant. "Are the robots awake?" he demanded, grabbing Christian's arm and tugging him upwards once more.

"A-awake? I guess you could call it that." Christian wrenched himself out of Blake's grasp before stepping forward, grabbing the youth by the collar. "What do you have down there, boy? What did you trap my friends with?"

"R-robots!" Blake squeaked. "They're our last-ditch security measure! When they're activated, the lower floors shut down, because they were designed to protect it!"

"Robot security?! What the hell kinda place you got here, boy?!"

"Please don't yell at me, sir!" Blake squeaked, squirming in his tight grip. "Like I said, they're a last measure! They can't be activated unless you have the code!"

"And who has the code?"

"T—the boss, and Bianca, and our top Engineer, and Giancarlo! But only Giancarlo would be—"

"Giancarlo is dead." Christian retorted flatly.

Suddenly Blake ceased in his blabbing, and for an instant the only sound to be heard was the wailing of the alarms, which seemed to fade eerily into the background the longer Christian and Blake stared at each other. "Oh, no, sir," Blake whispered, "you didn't kill him. You just made him angry."

"Can you fix this?" Christian demanded, shaking him a little to get his attention. "Can you stop this?"

"I—I—I—"

His wide green eyes flickered to Lizzie, taking in her frightened expression. His eyes went lower to her pregnant stomach and the way she held her hands to it protectively. Her brother—that baby's uncle—was down there, trapped, and God only knew if he would get out alive. With a sinking feeling, Blake realized there was only one person in the entire factory with enough know-how to stop those rampaging machines.

And his name was Blake Porter.

"I…I can try." Blake looked back to Christian, expression grim. He stepped out of Christian's grasp. "But I need you to stay here. If those robots get out, there needs to be someone watching the door."

"What for?" Christian's eyebrow arched, even as he reached for his gun.

Blake took a deep breath before beginning. "Those robots are a last-resort for a reason. They're faulty, and we're still fiddling with the AI. You see, once these robots are operating they can't tell friend from foe. They attack anyone—or anything—that gets in their way. We've had a…few…accidents happen while working on them. They keep going, and they won't stop. And if they get through those doors—" Blake pointed to the entrance "—I don't want to think about what might happen."

"Sounds like you got a multi-million dollar liability on your hands, kid." Christian's eyes narrowed, but nonetheless he nodded. "I'll stay here. Now get!" He released Blake and the youth stumbled backwards, practically vanishing on the spot once he was free.

Christian began to recheck all of his weapons, and as he did so Jack grabbed Lizzie's hand. "C'mon. We're getting out of here."

"What? No!"

"Liz, you heard the kid! We gotta get out of here!"

Lizzie jerked her hand back out of Jack's grasp with a scowl. "Not without Lawrence."

"Liz," Jack scowled, stepping forward to take her shoulders, "think of the baby!"

If he had bothered looking into her eyes—really, truly looking into them—he would have seen that she had already thought of the baby. She had already attempted to balance familial bonds with motherly love, had weighed the risks and the consequences. This unborn child was her life, her everything—but so was her brother. And he was trapped downstairs where she could not save him. So she would do the next best thing. She would wait for him, and Philippe, and Christian. She would wait for the ones that she loved, no matter how long it would take. She owed what little she had to the living.

In all their years, Lawrence had never allowed harm to come to her. It was the very least she could do to pay him back.

So she tactfully stepped out of Jack's grasp, expression calm and almost regal. "Not without Lawrence. You can run if you want, but I'm staying until I know my brother is safe." Her bright blue eyes narrowed, and Jack took a step backwards, startled and nearly intimidated. The Mundy blood in her—the fierce, stubborn, brazen Mundy blood—was beginning to take over, and Lizzie seemed to stand somewhat taller.

"Liz," Christian began in a low tone, "I think you should go—"

His tone was cut off by the sound of spraying bullets in the distance, shortly followed by a cry of pain. Instantly the gaze of both Lizzie and Christian swiveled to the dark corridor from where he had come from. There was a loud bang, and another, and another, and the grip Christian had on his gun began to shake.

When the bangs ceased, Lizzie took a deep, steadying breath and rounded on her husband once more.

Only to find that he wasn't there.

And, just as quickly as it had come, that fierceness that had overtaken her was gone. She deflated, suddenly small and fragile and scared. "He's gone," she whispered, eyes widening, "he's gone."

She didn't have time to mourn; because Christian's steady hand was on her shoulder. "Liz," his eyes were blazing, "are you sure about this?"

"Positive," she said, even as her voice cracked. "Wh—what's this?" She blanched as Christian shoved a very large, very pointy sword at her. She took it gingerly by the hilt.

"It belongs to your brother. He got it on some fancy trip to some place in the East."

"Wh—what do I do with it?!"

"See the pointy sharp end?" Christian pointed to the blade of the scimitar. "Put that in anything that tries to kill me."

A vein in Lizzie's throat jumped and what color she had drained, but nonetheless she nodded, retreating against the wall. Christian rolled his shoulders back, ready for whatever came.

…

"Okay, okay, okay, this is not good."

"Yes, thank you, that is marvelous input into this whole situation, Lawrence!"

The pair stood, staring at the immovable door in frustration and horror. Sniper tugged at the handle desperately while Spy drew his revolver, turning slowly on the spot.

For an awful screeching noise had begun to sound behind them. As Spy watched, the door standing between themselves and the murderous robots was blasted to bits, thudding against the opposite wall was a charred and dented piece of scrap metal.

The first of the robots stumbled out of the room—and was promptly sent flying by a bullet to the head. Spy strode forward, the very definition of calm, firing another bullet into the second robot. The third managed to fire off a bullet that whizzed harmlessly past Spy's head. "Good news," he called to Sniper, "their aim is worthless!"

"They don't need accuracy, spook!" Sniper thundered. He gave up on the door and followed Spy, rifle in hand. "They just need numbers…" His voice trailed off, and Spy stopped in his tracks.

A hundred or so metallic guns were pointed towards them. A few clicks and shifting gears broke the sudden silence, and then the order was given by an unseen source:

"Fire."

Spy had Sniper by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to the floor instantly, the bullets whizzing overhead and colliding with nothing by wall. Flattened to the tile floor, arms thrown over his head, Sniper managed a grin. "Told ya. Stupid bucket of bolts—AARGH!"

A bullet pinged off of the floor near his elbow and Sniper froze. Spy grabbed his gun and fired at the offending robot, buckling the machine. "Delayed reaction," he muttered.

"What do we do?" Sniper roared over the din of whirring guns.

"Back to the dispenser!"

It was a start, at least.

There was no need for verbal communication of a plan. Sniper and Spy may not always have been in tandem, but they were a team nonetheless. Instantly Sniper scrambled up off of the floor and tackled the nearest robot to the floor. Spy rose up after him with weapons blazing, firing rapid shots into the metal crowd. He ducked once more and slid his knife through his fingers, stabbing a robot in the thigh. The knife went deep into the body of steel and wires, and Spy grunted as he jerked it back out again.

Sniper, meanwhile, was putting his kukri to good use. Darting this way and that, he stabbed and hacked and slaughtered, bits of sparking material falling around him as he danced a macabre ballet into the thick of it. Spy followed, appearing and reappearing at will, conserving his firepower as best he could. His quick blade slid into the wire-filled slit between head and neck, and the robot sparked and collapsed. Spy disappeared again, only to reappear at Sniper's back with sapper drawn.

Two robots had finally been roused to attention and fired towards Sniper. He ducked, and as he did so Spy rolled over his back, tossed the sapper down into the crowd, and grinned as several more robots exploded. "Nothing more than an Engineer's toys—ARGH!"

Blood spurted from his shoulder and Spy's good arm flew to it in horror. He dropped to his knees just in time to avoid a volley of fire. Sniper vaulted over him, beheading two robots in one fell stroke. "You okay?" He called even as he reversed the stroke, stabbing a robot behind him.

"Bordel…I'm fine! Keep going!" Spy staggered to his feet, grimacing as blood ran down his limp arm. "The suit is ruined anyway!"

"M'not worried about the damn suit, ya stupid blighter!" Sniper roared, glaring at the wounded Spy. "C'mon!" He darted backwards, grabbed the Spy by the collar, and hauled him into a workshop. He slammed the door behind them, just as a spray of bullets hit it.

Sniper frowned at the dented door before stepping back, eying Spy. The Frenchman had slumped down beside the door, clutching his arm. "The bullet is lodged in there," he hissed, swallowing back a cry of pain as he tried to shift. He slammed his head against the wall, mouth contorted. "Quel idiot!"

"I am not an idiot," Sniper snapped. The Aussie backed away from the door, listening to the movements of the metallic menace outside it. "How many bullets do you got?"

Fire licked his shoulder with each movement, but nevertheless Spy managed to pop open the chamber to his revolver. The instant he did so his expression darkened—more so than it already had. "I'm out."

Sniper swore softly, casting glances around. While Spy slid off his jacket and tried to mop up the running blood with the fine material, his Aussie companion was busy rummaging around the tarp-covered tables and dusty wooden boxes. "Lawrence! Leave that alone! We 'ave bigger problems!" White spots flickered across his eyes and Spy cursed, throwing a glare at the door. "What I wouldn't give for Demoman right now!"

"Hey spook."

"What?"

"Where's the best place to get chased into by a horde of crazy robots?"

"I'm not in the mood for riddles, Lawrence."

"C'mon, guess!"

"Aargh…I don't know. Nowhere, I suppose."

Sniper scoffed. He grabbed fistfuls of tarp and tugged it off a table with a dramatic flourish. "How about the experimental weaponry division?" With a canine grin he looked back to Spy, arms spread wide. "Ta-da."

Suddenly curious, Spy braced himself against the wall and slid upwards. He staggered over to join Sniper, eyebrows arched. "What the…"

Scattered across the dust-covered table were weapons of all shapes and sizes, some laying ready for a wielder, some half-finished, some discarded entirely. Sniper moved on to the stack of boxes beside the table while Spy studied the weapons. There was what looked to be a half-finished flamethrower, several watches like the one he had pilfered before, and an odd, oval-shaped device. He hefted it up into his good arm, admiring its pristine white shell and the spindly black arms whose functions he couldn't discern. There was a small inscribed printed on the underside of the device, and Spy squinted to read it. "Portal device mark tw—"

A crow of triumph from Sniper interrupted him. The Aussie had resurfaced from deep within a box, a long, thin rod in hand. "This is perfect! Put that toy down, spook, we're back in business!"

"A crowbar?"

"Don't scoff." Sniper wagged his finger before handing the crowbar off to Spy. "It's hard-hitting, it's fast, and all you need is a good grip in one hand."

Gingerly Spy put the odd device down and took the crowbar in hand. He arched his eyebrows at the plebeian weapon, refusing to be impressed. As he did so, a resounding boom sounded against the door. A huge dent appeared in the metal, and the door bent inwards in its frame.

Sniper scooped up a handle of little gray capsules. He shook them a bit, apparently unconcerned about the encroaching danger. "What do you reckon these do?"

"Lawrence—"

Before Spy could even begin to chide Sniper, however, there was a chilling final thud, and the door clattered to the ground. The first of many robots stepped through the threshold, gun whirring.

Sniper wasted no time—the pellets were flung from his hand, and then the world exploded into smoke.

…

Blake's breathing was labored as he climbed the last of the stairs, wrench in hand. Even as he adjusted the wobbling hardhat on his head he darted forward, towards the only room on this floor.

He slammed his palm against the identification pad, but the light above the door stayed a dim red. "Access denied," a cheerful feminine voice informed him, "this room is under lockdown."

Blake's eyes widened and his grip on the wrench tightened. "Let me in!"

"I am afraid I cannot do that, sir."

His bright green eyes flashed and the wrench swung through the air, colliding with the identification pad. It shattered into a million glass bits, revealing the wiring underneath. Undeterred, Blake stuck his hand into the mess of sparking bits, fiddling around with a bunch of wires.

"Sir—sir…sir…" The feminine voice deepened and then dropped away. The door slid open. Blake charged through the threshold, wielding his tool like a weapon in preparedness for a fight.

And then stopped short.

Giancarlo was hunched over the motherboard, one hand gripping the board tightly. His head was bowed, shoulders heaving as though he were about to be sick. He was a dark silhouette against the bright glow of the computer screens, a blot of ill intentions at the helm of his war machine.

Blake took a cautious step forward. "Giancarlo?"

Slowly, Giancarlo's head came up. He continued to face the screen. "Where's Delmond?"

"He's…preoccupied elsewhere."

"Get him immediately!"

"He's not available."

"What did you do?"

"I might be asking you the same question."

There was a steel edge in Blake's voice, one that made Giancarlo glance over his shoulder, eye flickering over the stiff Blake. His grip on the desk tightened. "Tell me, Porter. What was the major problem we were having with the Respawn system?"

Something about his tone made the blond nervous, and he shifted. "T-the…the molecules…some of them didn't translate correctly. All those mice…" He lowered his eyes to the ground in remembered horror. "That's why we didn't move onto human subjects. Except…" his voice trailed off in terrified realization, "except…the Boss insisted that you and Bia be hooked up to the system…" Eyes widening, breath quickened, his gaze shot upwards once more.

Unhurriedly, with all the deliberateness of a surgeon in the middle of a procedure, Giancarlo turned around.

Blake's wrench clattered to the floor.

Giancarlo tilted his head to the side. "Scared, boy?"

The right side of his face was fine. But the left…

Where smooth flesh should have been there was nothing but muscle and sinew. An empty eye socket stared at Blake. Veiny lines of exposed muscle spider webbed across his nose. Yellowed teeth clenched in agony, and as his breath hitched in delayed pain Blake could see bits and pieces of exposed throat.

For a long moment there was silence. Carefully Blake leaned down and scooped up his wrench, holding it close to his chest as a child might a teddy bear. Giancarlo remained silent, waiting for his reaction, and finally Blake cleared his throat. "You should get that checked out."

A split second later the wrench was rebounding off of Giancarlo's forehead. He howled in pain and stumbled backwards, and Blake seized the chance. He rushed forward and punched Giancarlo straight in the jaw.

The already stunned, injured Italian dropped to the floor, out cold.

There was a beat as Blake stared at the unconscious man at his feet. And then he bounced into the air. "YES! I DID IT! I DID IT, I—OW! Owowowowo…" His clenched hand felt like it was on fire, and he clutched it to his chest, blowing on it in an attempt to ease the pain. "Owowowowow…ow…ow…aha…focus, you moron, focus!"

What was he doing again?

Robots. Mister Lawrence. Right.

Continuing to nurse his throbbing hand, he sat down at the motherboard and took a deep breath. "Computer, shut down the alerts. Provide auxiliary power to the lower floors."

The machine obliged him. Two smaller screens appearing, revealing the situation on the lower floors. Blake grimaced as he watched the ugly battle before turning back to the main screen. "Good. Um…shut down the robots."

A password box appeared.

"Dammit. It was worth a shot, I guess. Uh…how are they doing down there, anyways?"

"Forty-one robots are no longer functional, sir."

"Out of?"

"One hundred."

Blake arched his eyebrows and whistled. "Are there any emergency exits out of the lower floors?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

Leaning backwards in the office chair, Blake considered his options. No password, no emergency exits, no chance of survival unless he got Lawrence and his French friend out of there. First things first, then—get them out of lower floors and to safety.

He began to chew the bottom of his lip, and so when the idea struck him he nearly broke the skin. He scrambled up out of the chair. "Computer, open all doors on the lower floors immediately."

"Sir—"

"DO IT!"

…

A grinding, whirring sound set Christian's teeth on edge. He clapped one hand to his head, trying to stuff it out. "AARGH! What was that?"

Lizzie swallowed hard. "Something's moving down there. Do—do you think Blake got the doors working?"

"Sounds like it." Christian shooed Lizzie away again, finger sliding towards the trigger on his pistol.

Silence ensued once more. And then—BOOM! Christian grimaced and Lizzie jumped, hands trembling on the shiv in her hands. A series of explosive sounds followed, and with each successive boom whatever was coming drew closer and closer.

Christian breathed deeply, exhaling in even bursts as three robots marched down the corridor, weapons at the ready. "STAND DOWN!"

The robots did not comply. They didn't even slow their pace. They just continued towards Christian. The bartender scowled, no longer afraid but angry. He had caught a glimpse of Lizzie's frightened mien, and a fatherly instinct to protect had coursed through his system like electric shocks.

He pulled the trigger, catching one robot in the neck. Its featureless head jerked backwards, and that afforded Christian another clear shot into its wiring. It fell to the ground, twitching and sparking, but its companions paid it no heed. At the sound of gunfire they had snapped to full alertness.

Christian had a split second to spring out of the way as they fired. Lizzie shrieked as bullets ripped through the air. Christian scowled and rolled over onto his back, returning fire. He managed to take down the second robot, and was in the middle of scooting backwards when the final robot finally registered where the fire was coming from, and appropriately aimed its gun in that direction.

"CHRISTIAN!"

He rolled once more, missing a hailstorm of bullets by an instant, and just as he righted himself once more a bullet went whizzing overhead—straight into the head of the final robot and out once more. It was a clear, clean shot, and Lizzie couldn't help but to marvel at the marksman-like accuracy of the shot as the bucket of bolts collapsed in a heap.

Both Christian and Lizzie looked to his savior, jaws dropping in unison.

It wasn't Lawrence. It wasn't Philippe. It wasn't Blake or Jack.

"DAD?!"

On the behalf of good literature everywhere I must apologize for this chapter

Up next: "Oh God I got shot! I got shot I got shot-" "Focus, kid! I need you here!"