Spy cracked his eyes open, felt like his skull was cracking open with them, and so closed them, but not before seeing a familiar face.
"Bonjour, Miss Pauling." he growled out.
"Hello, Spy." the woman replied calmly.
He hears a strange tinniness in his ears. It is like singing, like a choir, but it is a strange lyric-less drone. The turrets were singing somewhere in the distance. Another peek of his eyes doesn't deliver much information, or at least, none that he feels he can use given the fact that he is still in an inconvenient amount of pain.
"This is not an actual hotel room, is it?" he manages.
"Sorry, no," is her reply, "But it's clean."
That manages to make him laugh, a painful endeavor, the motion jostles his head, which makes him feel like the room spins.
"Kill me?" he inquires, a hopeless request, he knows.
"Later." Miss Pauling promises, "Stay awake, now. We're in a bit of a predicament—stay put, Mr. Rattmann—but our friend here tells me you have a key out of it."
The Frenchman's eyes slam open, concussion be damned, to narrow in on the man that was hunching near the glass doors.
"I would not be so quick to call him a 'friend'." he goes on dryly, glaring, wishing for a balisong in his hand, then the last part catches up with his brain, "A key?"
"Well, part of it," the young woman concedes, "And it's best to put any scuffles aside and work while She still thinks we're unworthy of notice."
Miss Pauling briefly braces herself on the floor, gently swaying. It is then the Spy realizes that this room literally was spinning.
. . .
The Heavy sat up, feeling slight tremors in his arm from the aftershocks of Respawn, waiting patiently until those died away, looking at his surroundings. Down here was the evidenced underbelly of this monstrous place, ugly and old-feeling. It smelled rank and sick with still water and corroded metal, dark and decrepit, the air clammy to the feel, reminding him of abandoned weapons factories in the old towns eaten by winter and 'progress'. This place's monstrousness added different components of distant sounds and the feeling of searching eyes.
Clearly She had cast him down here with the intent to have him rot with the rest of Her waste. What was it the Doktor had said? 'Out of sight, out of mind'?
Heh, silly witch-woman.
The Heavy knew that just because this place was forgotten, did not mean it was dead.
And neither was the Heavy. Hopefully he would stay forgotten for a while.
He jumped a little when something made a distant, metallic crashing, the scrape of rough iron edges. A disturbance, something falling? Natural, or no?
. . .
He would have to find a new weapon, then he would feel a little bit better about not being dead.
Then he frowned when something distinctly not metal sounded. A voice. Singing?
Was that the National Anthem...?
. . .
It was a run of tight spaces, iffy terrain, a quick eye, and quicker thinking. That was just fine with him. It was different though, running it with another, the way she was. It was up to Sniper to watch out for her, as she sure didn't seem too inclined to watch out for him, except to glare at him when he'd almost get in the way in this run.
After he'd proved he wasn't a threat or a foe, this sheila seemed to mark him off and move on, head wound, shoulder, and all, after the Woman's singing.
You want your freedom? Come get it...
If she had any annoyances for his tagging along, she didn't seem to show them, didn't try to slow down or shake him off, which was a bit off-putting. The Sniper wasn't used to quiet comrades in the field, besides the Spy or the Engineer. She reminded him a bit more of the Engineer, determined, focused, though focused on what he sure couldn't bleeding tell. Hell, he didn't even know why he was following the girl, outside of concern for that bleeder in her forehead and curiosity about where exactly she was planning on going.
That's what I'm hoping for...
"Look, lady," he finally spoke up, when she was pausing to consider the layout ahead, she was probably aiming to get to a higher catwalk, "Going after Her like this prolly isn't going to do anything for ya. It's what She wants, and if you know Her like I think you do, you're not gonna win this on Her terms, not without a plan."
The girl only raised an eyebrow at him, before a couple portals and some airtime later had her trotting easy as you please higher up.
With a grumble the Sniper followed with considerably less grace, reluctantly, irritatingly curious. Maybe silence wasn't always Australium.
. . .
The Heavy stared in disbelief at the stocky man before him, who was dressed in a makeshift army uniform of the orange jumpsuits and green spraypaint, with what looked like a helmet made from a turret. Glowing eyes from spherical robots looked down at them from the ceiling, pink, green, yellow, orange. The Soldier grinned at the Heavy, "Greetings, Russki! Glad to see you moving, we can use all the men we can get! I found these robots who claim to be defecting, and have recruited them to further the war effort! With the robots' own alien technology on our side, we can't possibly lose!"
"I like the way this guy thinks." the green-eyed one agreed, "And hey, here's another human, lots of traffic today, huh? Welcome to the war, big guy!"
"Why is he so big? Is he mutated?" the orange one asked.
"Fact: Largeness is a tactical attribute. Uses are: meat shield, portable gravity field generator, and sacrificial zombie bait."
"Aren't they great?" the Soldier asked proudly, gesturing, "All we need's an appropriate battle cry and―"
"No." the Heavy stated flatly.
Man and cores watched as the giant man promptly turned around and stomped away.
"No. No. No. No. No."
. . .
A/N: Short? Yes. But it's still alive.
