They called a ceasefire, right before noon.
It was the result of hurried conversations among the Reds still outside the fort. They were scuffed and burned and tired, and the adrenaline that had kept them going through the first couple hours had fizzled out, leaving them exhausted.
And, whether they wanted to admit it or not, the Blu team was giving them a run for their money.
Niklas was the first to suggest it. He shot a look at Ivan, who heaved like a winded bull as he leaned against the wood just inside the Red team's fort.
"This hard work, doctor," Ivan wheezed. "Or Ivan have too many sandviches."
The doctor pursed his lips. His arms ached, and a stray grenade had left the left side of his chest and stomach streaked with an ugly red burn he hadn't had time to heal. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
As if on cue, Doe appeared around the corner, too busy reloading the rocket launcher to look up. Gunpowder streaked across his chin and cheeks, along with something that, to Niklas, closely resembled dried blood.
"Doc," Doe said by way of greeting, even though he didn't look up. "Y'might get in there and take a look at Mundy. Damn Blus tore him up pretty good."
Niklas frowned. "Ze Blu team got to Herr Mundy?"
"Yep. About ten minutes ago. That ape they call a soldier had him pinned. Prolly would've killed him, if Lawrence hadn't stuck him too."
Niklas raised his eyebrows. He was more than a little annoyed that Lawrence was now essentially useless, but the doctor was pleasantly surprised – maybe even bordering on amazed – to find out the Australian had managed to take the Blu Soldier out of the fight. Their odds still weren't great, but they were definitely better.
"Gotta say, I didn't think Mundy had it in him." Doe rolled the rocket back onto one shoulder and headed back to the door. "I mean, I'm not too surprised about Fischer bringin' that spy in – that man's nuttier'n a bag of squirrels – but the sniper... y'know. Avoids conflict'n all that."
If he hadn't been paying attention before, what Doe said snapped Niklas back to reality. "Vat did you say, herr Doe?"
Stopping mid-step, Doe turned around. Bits of dust fluttered around him in the high sunlight. "Huh?"
"About Herr Fischer. And a spy?"
"Oh." Doe shrugged. "Tex's havin' a fit about it upstairs. Figured you knew. Somethin' about the way Fischer's treatin' our captives."
Niklas let out a sigh that blew dust off the walls. Beside him, Ivan watched the conversation intently, his eyes wide and curious.
"Vere are ze ozzers, Herr Doe?"
"Y'mean the rest of the Reds? Er- the Runner's upstairs pokin' the spy with a stick, and DeGroot's snuck off to the spirals fer liquid confidence, if y'know what I mean." Using his fingers, Doe counted off the other members of the team. "Tex is up there tryin' to keep Fischer from turnin' the spy into French toast, Mundy's in the medic bay."
"And our spy?"
Conagher shrugged. "Who knows? Figure he's off lurkin' around. What he does best, y'know?"
Shouldering the medi-gun, Niklas peered across the moat to the Blu fort. The balcony and entryways were empty, but he had a feeling someone over there was watching him. "Herr Doe, if you vould attempt to get in touch vis our spy over ze communication system. I believe..." He sighed again. "I believe a regrouping is in order."
(-)
If Conagher had hair long enough to grab, he'd have been pulling it out.
He stood in front of the barracks, arms crossed and doing his best to stare down a man hidden behind gas mask lenses.
"For the last time, no," he snarled. "I've got Walsch in there watchin' em. No need for you to go in there."
"I dragged one of them in!" Snarling, Fischer yanked the gas mask off and threw it to the ground. His skin was pale and coated in a thin sheen of sweat. "I sure as hell think that means I'm allowed in there."
"No, you're not."
"And what about Lawrence? What if one of those- those-" Fischer struggled for a word, but came up empty-handed, instead settling for spitting on the wooden floor. "What if they get their hands on Lawrence?"
"Walsch is keepin' an eye on that, too." Conagher fought to keep his voice even. "'sides, those two're trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys. They ain't goin' nowhere."
Fischer took several steps forward, until he and the Texan were inches apart. This close, Conagher could smell the serum, sharp and throat-tightening. It must have been leaking out of the redhead's pores as it made its way through his system.
"Just like your plan with the Blu Scout?" Fischer's eyes narrowed. "That worked out wonderfully, if I recall."
Conagher clenched and unclenched his fists. He refused to throw a punch at Fischer. Refused. If they turned on each other, they were as good as dead.
But Fischer was making Conagher's resolve very, very difficult to maintain.
"That's none of your concern." Conagher's voice was soft. Dangerous. "And unless you want to be tied up in there with them, I suggest you turn yourself around and get back to the catwalk. I reckon you need to at least pretend you care about what happens to the rest of your team."
"What else do you want from me?" Fischer swung his arms up so fast they almost hit Conagher's chest, and his voice rose to a shout. "I went in – alone – and brought one of them back for you. Who else on this team cared enough to go in alone?"
"Don't pretend this is about us, Fischer. You and I both know that's not true. And your hostage won't do us any good if his tongue's burned out."
Fischer's eyes went hard, and Conagher braced himself for a punch. If the redhead hit him, by God, he'd beat him senseless, respawn or no.
But it never came.
Instead, Fischer jabbed a soot-covered finger in Conagher's face.
"This isn't over," he hissed, before turning and stalking toward the balcony. Halfway across the room, he paused to pick up the gas mask. He stared at it for a moment, knuckles white, then, with a scoff, kept walking.
The moment Fischer disappeared around the corner, Conagher slumped. Removing his hard hat, he dropped it to the floor and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He wanted to kick it across the room, or throw the wrench at his feet against the sentry in the corner until it exploded. Something, anything to get rid of the pent-up rage bubbling inside him.
And Fischer, in true Pyro fashion, was the best at fanning those flames until they grew from a flicker into a full-blown inferno.
"Is everysing alright, Herr Conagher?"
Niklas, closely followed by Ivan and Doe, appeared at the top of the courtyard stairs. Conagher forced a smile, even though he felt more like locking himself in the barracks for an hour and punching the walls.
"Just peachy, doc. How's it goin' out there?"
"Nosing new to report. I felt it vas time for a break, and Ivan and Herr Doe agreed vis me." Niklas glanced over Conagher's shoulder, peering curiously at the closed barracks door. "It seems to me zat you are more informed of ze goings-on zan I am."
Conagher shrugged. He felt the briefest stab of guilt for letting Fischer storm out onto the battlements when there was no one out there to back him up. But it was easily swallowed by the memory of their conversation. "Just in the right place for that kinda thing, I reckon."
"Ja." Another peek toward the barracks. "Might I see our captives? And I vould like to attend to Herr Mundy, as vell."
"Oh. Of course." Conagher stepped sideways, allowing Niklas to come closer.
The barracks door slid open, revealing a misshapen lump in each of the two far corners, and a disgruntled-looking Billy situated between the two of them.
"'bout time someone came in to take over," the Bostonian snapped, jumping to his feet. "I ain't no babysitter."
The lump on the left – as Niklas approached, he recognized it as the Blu Soldier, tipped sideways and tied at the hands and feet – made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a wail. Billy shot the Blu Soldier an irritable look.
"He kept tryin' to talk to me. Crap like, 'I'll strangle you in your sleep,' and 'Fight me like a real man. Finally had to shut him up."
The men took a closer look, then winced. A filthy gym sock, the kind that the men usually burned instead of washing, was shoved in the Blu Soldier's mouth. If the look on the Blu Soldier's face was any indication, the sock tasted about as well as it smelled.
In the other corner was the Blu Spy, trussed up much the same, but silent and glowering.
"Mundy's further back," Conagher said, jerking his head toward the barracks.
Nodding, Niklas tore his eyes away from the Blu Soldier and headed back, the medi-gun still under one arm.
The barracks were dark and silent, save for the soft shifting and moaning that came from a bed near the far wall. In the low light, Niklas could see Lawrence curled up on his bunk, arms and legs twitching like spider limbs.
"Herr Mundy."
A low sigh was all Niklas got in reply.
"I vill see vat I can do," Niklas said, resting the medi-gun on the bed. "If Fischer vas any indication, I can't completely nullify ze effects, but I can take some of ze bite avay. At least ve know it von't kill you."
"Sure could'a fooled me." Lawrence's voice was rough, like he'd been screaming or sobbing, or both. Slowly, he turned so he was facing the doctor. "Alright, doc. Do your worst."
(-)
Fischer aimed his boot at a clump of dirt that had somehow found its way onto the balcony. It spun across the wood, colliding with a wall and exploding into pieces. Frowning, Fischer crushed the few fingernail-sized clumps that remained into dust.
It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that, no matter what he did, it would never be enough.
He'd gone behind enemy lines, crawled right up the Blu team's freaking spine and taken out what was probably the biggest asset to their intelligence stream. And doing it when one misstep could have landed him in a permanent dirt nap.
And now they – or Conagher, to be specific – were saying he couldn't be trusted?
Hell, Fischer would be the first to admit he'd gone after the Blu Spy for personal reasons. But if he'd only done it for personal reasons, the Blu Spy would've been floating, face down, in the moat. Not alive, tied up, and locked in the barracks.
But no. Untrustworthy.
Across the bridge, the Blu fort was silent. Fischer stared at it, still crushing dirt clumps beneath his boots and grinding them into powder. Had he not proven himself to them, over and over again? Had he not thrown himself in front of them for deflections, or extinguished them when they were seconds from death?
Voices rose from around the corner. Curiosity tugged at Fischer, but he ignored it, setting his face into a deep scowl and trudging over to the other side of the balcony so he could sit next to the door of the smaller, less-used respawn room. He was quickly approaching the conclusion that he could float down in the middle of the courtyard, raining ice cream and rainbows and embodying peace itself, and they'd still think he was a monster.
He wasn't a monster. He was the person who did what no one else wanted to do. He cleaned up after them, and they resented him for it.
Damn it.
Even though he hated himself for it, Fischer stalked back over to the other end of the balcony so he could listen in on what the others were saying. Their voices were muffled – they must have been inside the barracks, he reasoned – and judging by Conagher's tone, he was still riled up from their disagreement.
If he'd just listened to Fischer. Actually paid attention to what Fischer had to say. Budged a little.
The voices grew faint, like the men were moving farther into the barracks. Fischer swore beneath his breath, then, arms crossed and face set in a firm scowl, he stomped back into the hay room.
His curiosity would be the death of him.
Author's note: For some strange reason, writing Fischer stewing is really fun to do. Just like writing the argument between him and Conagher.
Something interesting should happen in the next chapter.
See you all in two weeks.