Warning for: blood, gore, graphic violence, injury, and decapitation in this chapter.

The final day of your trial dawns grey. It seems highly unusual, unsettling as you dress and arm yourself for the battle—and it would seem your teammates, as they shuffle silently through the halls, pour subdued cups of coffee, agree. You will the unease from your thoughts. Anything else, today of all days…

You will prevail. For your mother, for your family, for that glowing ember of pride in your heart as you stand in the locker room this morning. The desert sky can threaten as it likes, seem stout, strange, stormy—none of that will matter.

Medic catches your eye from across the room and gives what might be an encouraging nod. That smile is—genuine. But unsettling. You return it, as it's the only one you've been offered so far this morning, and he strides over, bouncing on his heels.

"How would you like to pair with me today?"

You swear your heart stopped.

But your answer—"Yes!"—comes spilling off your tongue just the rain threatens to fall today: sudden, quick, and hard from the skies.

He chuckles, adjusting his spectacles, that wide grin only broadening. "Gut. I think you will enjoy this, neue. Consider it… our first field-test, hm?" He winks.

His restrained excitement at the thought of testing makes the man reminiscent of some loping puppy, ready to go out and fetch. A loping puppy that could tear a man's intestines out through his ribcage, playing a game of fetch that included spilling blood and shattering bone. But the image held well enough.

Heavy slaps you on the shoulder. "Über is… best feeling. English is too limited to explain… you will enjoy."

The first time you'd ever witnessed an übercharge, it had been Heavy himself, leading a push behind enemy lines. He seemed to glow brighter than the desert sun, tall, eyes aflame with primal energy, flowing across the field with grace and strength, heralding doom in the rattle of his mini-gun. Bullets tore the air like the screams of their victims, whistling, whirring, blazing like a summer storm.

It was magnificent.

The thought that you might, some match or other, command such power thrills you to your very core. Perhaps, at the Medic's side, it could even be today.

But you shouldn't get ahead of yourself. The last thing you need is to be distracted enough to make a mistake.

[Go!]

You hang back just a moment, to let him take the lead as he had during your hunt for the spy. But, he only readies his medigun with the shadow of a smile. "I'll be right behind you, neue."

With a nod, you surge forward on the heels of Soldier and Heavy—Scout and Pyro long gone. Out, into the grey, pale light, soil colored a dusky orange, the wood of the buildings tinged black—

And a warm glow washes over your body, a pleasant tingling on your skin that caresses muscle and bone, warming your cheeks, bringing a faintly metallic, rainy scent to your nose that might be from the weather or the medigun itself. Any aches left from the previous day are gone, forgotten in the slight breeze.

The taste of blood and storm are on your lips, and you swear your vision is sharper, the edges of each corridor more defined, the sweat already beading on the enemy's foreheads clear as day across the field.

You feel healthier than you have been in your entire life. If you could bring this home…

No. Not right now. You—

"Overheal," Medic explains, close behind. You cast a glance over your shoulder to see that bone-saw grin. "It takes your peak health and boosts it to absolute optimum. You will take more hits, fatigue more slowly—even if you aren't constantly being healed."

"It's brilliant!"

He chuckles. "And it does not stop there. This is just the beginning!"

Boom-click.

You'd almost forgotten the opposition. Fortunately, the BLU scout wasn't a fan of subtlety, and like to fire before being completely in range—buckshot clattered harmlessly off your shield, not that it would have mattered at that distance, had you taken some. Not with the medigun's energy flowing over you.

"Retaliate, Specialist."

Oh, you do. You aim the Gyrojet and pull the trigger at the boy zigzagging his way across the soil, shotgun in hand. Miss. Miss. A wound opens along his arm.

He hisses. "That all ya got?" Boom-clilck. You crouch behind the shield, sure that Medic is well-covered behind you. Through the window, you see your team's pyro slip around to flank the boy and close your eyes as they pump the flamethrower's trigger.

You don't look, but his screams intermingle with what you're sure is raucous laughter, muffled behind a gas filter. You press on, the acrid scent of hair and stomach-turning burning flesh chasing you through the air.

The BLU heavy is on the point, paired with their demoman and specialist—the latter gives you a wicked grin to accompany the heavy's leer… it seems he has not forgotten the alley yesterday. A chill creeps down your spine even as the warm scarlet waves soothe it away, heating your blood as you lead the charge, Medic keeping pace close behind,

Pyro breaking away into a flanking maneuver.

Chaos on the point as you halt, crouch—

"Medic, down!" But he's already there at your shoulder, crouching behind the shield with you. You can feel his breath at your ear, steady, as the Kevlar rattles against your arm with the force of the mini-gun's bullets. Through cracked Plexiglas, you can see the heavy does not flinch, even as your Scout approaches his six, throwing the demo off his focus long enough for Pyro to airblast him into the dust—an opening for Soldier to leap into the fray with his shotgun—lest the force of a rocket harm the REDs already fighting for the point. The heavy absorbs four shots from Scout's scattergun before finally allowing a window in his cover-fire for you to rise again and get a clip's worth of shots into the BLU specialist's back. You're close enough now to hear the rattling gasp as your doppelganger goes down, her coat rapidly turning maroon as she collapses over her shield.

The sight, uncanny, turns your stomach.

The heavy collapses but a moment after, choking on his own blood. Scout and Pyro give chase to the demo. You turn, sweeping the area for any new resistance, boots squeaking on the bloodied steel point.

"Spezialist-!"

"Bonjour."

You whip around as quickly as you can, dominant shoulder burning, until Kevlar strikes a solid form. Shit. The spy hisses, stumbles, slides off the point's sloped edge—

And Medic raises his bone-saw even as you aim the pistol, biting your tongue against the pain.

Blood glistens on the air. The doctor strikes again—and again—and again—for the spy's part, he does not scream, only glares as best he is able with his head hanging only barely upon his shoulders. Slumped, at last, into the dirt, you can almost taste the copper on the air as Medic, blood in flecks across his coat, leans down to grin wickedly at the spy's wild, bleary eyes.

"Did you think I'd forgotten your part in it?" he asks, and deals the killing blow with one smooth, gleaming arc through the air. The spy's head rolls into the dull, orange dirt.

With a snap of his wrist, Medic flicks the blood off his blade, replaces the saw on his belt, and draws the medigun in another smooth movement. The effect on your shoulder is instant, pain soothed as crimson waves pour over the wound until the only trace left is the smallest tear in your coat.

"Shall we?" he asks with a genial grin.

You nod, furiously, and surge off toward the next point, following in Demo and Scout's tracks. The BLU team, you find, has wasted no time in buckling down their defenses here. But you see Heavy standing his ground not twenty feet from the fortifications, and take up the place beside him. "Need some support?"

He spares the barest glance and grins, uttering a booming chuckle. "Always welcome! But do not want to steal doktor."

The man in question scoffs. "You insult me, Heavy; I can support both of you easily!"

The hot, heady rush catches you after that, a buzz of both victory and scarlet energy, and you lose track of how many enemies you fell at Heavy's side. An engineer too caught up in repairing his sentry. The demoman, taking a swipe at your pyro. Soldier, Scout, Specialist. Maroon running crimson into the orange soil and sand. You move on to the third point together as Scout sounds a triumphant whoop.

Crack.

Draw Medic behind you with one arm. Hit the dirt, shield up, tense. Check for damage—

Heavy lies in the sand, a neat, bloody hole where the bullet pierced his skull. Shit.

"I've got that asshole!" Scout races off, dodging between buildings, and you rise from your knee to a low squat. Hold your breath. One. Two. Three.

"He should be combating the sniper now." His voice is at your ear, breath stirring the hair on the back of your neck. "We can still hit them hard vithout Heavy."

"All right."

Pyro falls into step beside you as you charge into the open, shield high as the BLU soldier fires a rocket, and you brace for impact—

Swush!

You blink. A gust of air from Pyro's flamethrower sent the projectile whirling back to the point, and the BLUs scatter. "Now!" You're not sure who your shout is meant to reach.

Anyone listening perhaps. This is the best opening your team can hope for.

Charge. Boots pounding a harsh rhythm in the dull, orange dirt. Out of the corners of your vison, you see Pyro and Soldier fanning out on the right and left as the BLUs regain their bearings on the point, raise their weapons—

You fire three shots, and drop to the ground in your defensive position. Buckshot clatters off Kevlar. You can feel Medic close behind you, the medigun's energy radiating along your skin. Catch sight of the enemy soldier through Plexiglas.

The heavy has switched to his shotgun, and ignores you for the sake of whipping the barrels toward Pyro, so you take the chance to sight down your Gyrojet and—

Bang!

Your arm recoils to your side as the rattle against your shield sets your teeth on edge. Fuck, that was too close. The heavy. He's turned his leering attention to Soldier, coming up on the right, and with both the BLU's distracted once again…

"Specialist."

Bang!

Pyro's body collapses, slides slowly off the silver point, and you ready your Gyrojet again—

"Spezialist," Medic hisses again, so quietly you almost can't hear it. His syllables buzz with urgency. "Zhe spy. Using your shield as cover until he gets close. Ten feet."

You squint through the Plexi. Yes—there's something like a heat haze, and a stirring along the sandy orange soil. Shit.

Boom!

And down goes Soldier.

Double shit.

And now the Pyro joins them in defense with those empty, black eyes.

"Fuck." You fire three shots at the soldier, but they've hit nothing vital, the barest traces of blood showing on his coat.

Your shield shudders again as you struggle to reload. "Fuck."

"Specialist, I need you to take some damage."

You take the risk of whipping your head around to face him. "You want me to what?"

Boom-crack!

"I don't have enough energy for an Uber-charge, and that's the only way we're making it out of this! The more energy the medigun expends in healing, the more heat energy it builds for the charge."

Boom!

You draw a deep breath and drop the Gyrojet. Draw your Lancaster in both hands. Fuck. Now you've lost sight of the cloaked spy. What if Medic can't heal you fast enough?

Then neither of you will be making it anywh—

"Just do it!"

Launch yourself to your feet, and crack! Your shield glances off a solid mass that materializes into—

Haze of silver, the glinting edge of a balisong pressing for your eyes—

You draw your left arm up, knock the spy's arm down and the balisong plunges into the soft skin between shoulder and collarbone. You hiss as he yanks the blade back, a sick slide as your flesh struggles to hold the blade in place, squicking as it draws up and back, silver spilling blood across the air. But the pain is replaced with heat and needling twitches in the muscle, and you know the medigun has done its work.

"Again!" Medic urges.

You feign being a fraction too slow, and the spy opens a rift along your arm.

Heat, tingling along your skin again, and—

"I am fully charged!"

You feel it the instant it hits. Scarlet, crackling energy ripples along your skin, a burning flame in your blood, rushing to your head and it's red, spinning, spiraling, rushing as the whole world falls away into one, single, burning instant as you raise your shield, draw the Lancaster high in one hand, and for an instant, you wonder—can you withstand the recoil like this?

Squeeze the trigger, with two assured fingers, and cackle breathlessly as the recoil hums along your wrist like no more than a light patter of rain in the wind. It fells the damned

Soldier in a single shot.

Your grin bares your teeth as a free, low, wicked laugh rumbles up from your very bones, rising through your chest, warbling madly in the air—Oh! This… this…! The air is bright, dancing before your very eyes, textures and color among the grey you don't recognize, beautiful—and the blood! Oh, the blood gleaming on the sand and your sleeves and in the terrified gazes of those BLU bastards, so bright, entrancing as a rose swaying in a sunset breeze…

The spy can't cloak again, not yet, and so he runs—but he seems so slow; you witness every flex of his muscles, the footprint as he leaves it in the cracked soil—you fire. Blood flowers from his back, blooming against blue, and he falls so slow and graceful and you're firing again as the scout scrambles to escape, as he fires desperate shot after shot bouncing with a ring like metal, high and sweet, chimes in the wind, ricocheting harmlessly off Kevlar and skin alike.

Your heart hums, thrums, joyous, calling: this is what you were always meant to be.

Chance a grin over your shoulder, and Medic—

Oh…

His skin crackles with that same singing spark, scarlet, and his eyes glitter like blood. Elegance, proud and tall as the tails of his coat crack behind him. Wicked genius in his grin.

"Take zhe point."

You plant one boot on the spy's bloody back and climb over him without care, reveling in the faint squelch of the sucking, gaping wound. Track burgundy blood over the gleaming silver and blue, and delight when the light fades to red.

[RED team has captured the point!]

And the power holding your body high is gone in a rush, like an exhale, gone in a moment, fizzling out. You gasp as your body trembles, natural adrenaline racing to catch up, trying hard to regulate the wild beating of your heart. A hand clasps your elbow before you feel your knees start to give.

It's Medic, spectacles catching the grey light, still grinning madly. "Ist gut?"

"It's… that was—" Your mind and tongue struggle. "—amazing." You draw another unsteady breath. Words, words. They seems so pale in comparison. "It.."

"Aguzichnet, wunderbar," he suggests, moving his hand smoothly from your elbow to shoulder, fingers curling lightly into your coat.

"Is it—" Your voice catches momentarily and you draw yourself up a little, taking another deep breath as your heart settles. "Is it always so—"

He chuckles, low in his throat. "Every time, Spezialist. Every time."

Your grin is shaky, but genuine. What you wouldn't give in this moment to experience that every day. "What now?"

"For now…" Medic's hand drops from your shoulder, and he takes a step forward. "Komm—we can regroup with zhe others before—"

Crack.

Your brain does not process the moment of impact, but it does command you to take cover, a reflexive crouch behind Kevlar, arm poised to shield your whole body. Your brain will not process the even as it happened, so you experience it in steps, backward, a short stint of recent memory, the only way you can:

Blood, first. Blood, hot on your face in spattered spray. It rolls down your cheeks, as Medic collapses into cracked dirt, head cradled in splintered bone and a cushion of bloody matter, glistening almost black in the low light filtered through stormclouds. The bullet had pierced his forehead, leaving a neat, dark hole graced by a single, curled lock of hair. His skull, of course, cracked, shattered, and in reverse, you piece it back together, play the instant over in your mind.

He didn't even have the opportunity to look surprised.

A heavy piece of something slouches its way down your face among the blood and sweat. You don't dare touch it, not even to wipe it away.

No. How could you let this happen again? Bad enough the second day, and now, this—worse, because you watched it, and there's no immediate target to open fire upon.

And now you're kneeling in the middle of the battlefield with a sniper just waiting for you to move. Your fingers curl tight inside the handle of your shield, leather glove creaking against the metal.

Well, you'll give him what he asked for.

You rise.

Crack.

Follow the invisible trajectory from sider-webbing cracks to a narrow shed's window, boarded up, save for a three-inch space between planks. A perfect sniper's perch. Digging your heels into the dirt, you sprint forward, head bowed behind the shield, and you bloody well hope that bastard can see you coming, and prepares. You don't need to shoot him in the back of the head while he's distracted. No, you want him to see your bloodstained face when you blast him apart.

A repeated mistake will not cost you the contract.

The sniper can't get off a second shot before you double around the neighboring shed, and you clear the first corner. The second. Throw open the fragile door.

Up, up the creaking steps. You care little for the sound. There is one thing and one thing only on your mind. There's a single color in your head—it is red.

A living, breathing red.

You don't slow when the sniper stands, snarling, at the top of the stairs, kukri drawn and ready. You don't miss a step when he reaches over your shield, curved blade pointed at your skull. Draw the shield up, under his arm as you spring up the final step, throw your body into the Kevlar. The snap, satisfying, settles your breath as he falls, nose crunching, shatters. The blade clatters behind you as you wrestle the BLU, half-pinned by your shield and spitting blood as you rise to your knees, his long legs lashing out at anything he can reach. The kukri clatters and spins across the floor. You bring your shield up, force it down upon his head.

Blocked, barely, by spry arms as he pushes back. You tumble—over, over, over, over—

Crack, crack, crack, crack—

Gather your legs. Catch yourself halfway down the stairwell.

The sniper sneers, wipes blood from his mouth and displaced nose on the back of his hand, reaches back for his rifle.

You draw your Lancaster, and with two hands, forego your cover.

Bang!

He drops. Slowly, shaking stiff limbs, rolling your neck, you climb. His body trembles.

Bang!

Skull fragments, splinters, explodes. Dead.

You spit on his corpse.