Warning in this chapter for: blood, graphic injuries, graphic death, gore, respawn
Enjoy, lovies.
There are so many words for red, and they cross your mind in rapid succession as the energy of the medigun ebbs and flows across your skin, coaxing to the surface a clarity, a buzz and rush that had been missing from your blood this morning, a connection to the very air around you, to the energy of the battle. Your team has yet to capture the fourth point, despite the time you lost wrestling with your doppelganger, despite the seconds spent finding the medic to recover your wounds. Soldier grapples with the demoman—evidently you had not finished him off—two sets of hands grasping the trench shovel, each trying to wrest it away from the other. You fire a shot from the Gyrojet—shuwush—and this time it pierces his neck. He slumps forward and down with a solid kick from your team-mate, spilling scarlet over cerulean and into the cracked dirt.
Scarlet, it's the first, the brightest, alive.
A bullet grazes your skin, and before you even register the extent of the damage done, your flesh is sealed again.
"Excellent!" declares Medic, behind you, voice harsh and lilting under the unyielding sun.
You wonder what he can see from there, just over your shoulder—the window in your shield, perhaps, as you keep a shotgun's spread from passing beyond. If Medic falls, it's over, your opportunity for that invincible high gone, but you—you, you're expendable in the meantime, a bulwark of flesh; and another round, this one larger, so much larger, rends a hole in your dominant shoulder, tearing muscle, shattering bone, whistling out the other side.
But there's crimson crawling along your skin, swimming through your blood, humming, healing with a hiss and a crack and an electric jolt.
Crimson, the second, the energy, ethereal.
"The time it takes will be even less!" the words spill from his lips in an excited whirl, and a high, tittering laugh follows.
A shiver runs down your spine, whips the adrenaline humming under your skin into a frenzy. "Down!" you bark, and know he obeys in time with the drop of your knee, black steel and Kevlar planted in the sand before you. That bullet had been the first in a volley, courtesy of the BLU heavy, but they get no further against the might of your shield. A flame of pride flickers to life in your chest. You can feel Medic's breath at your ear as before, only days ago, creeping along your skin, curling under your sweat-soaked collar.
"As before," he says, as though you could think of anything else. You have to take more damage in this pursuit-this hungry chase for power, for raw invulnerability.
But the pyro is coming up on your dominant side, flamethrower at the ready, and such injury is not so easily controlled, not at all the way you need, so you drop the Gyrojet and unfasten the Lancaster howdah from your thigh, press it between both hands, line up the shot.
BRRACK!
The pyro stumbles, weaves, either reeling from a bad shot on your part or simply mad, for that hollow mask keeps surging forward.
BRRACK!
Stopped dead this time, mask-down in the dusky dirt, burgundy broken through the back of the blue suit. You return your attention to the heavy's ceaseless assault, but your mind stays on the bare, broken flesh.
Burgundy, the third, the dark, rich.
"Once more," urges Medic at your ear. You heed him, rising slowly, switching your weapons again, and advise him, quietly, to stay three paces behind as you advance. The bullets will strike and graze you, but they must not reach the doctor. This is the plan.
Rising, you advance on the BLU's position, one solid step at a time, shield protecting your vitals, your very a barricade for Medic. Bullets tear into your thighs, and your steps waver, even as the medigun's energy stitches and sears every wound closed before blood can soak your trousers. You keep on. Step by step by step, waiting, breath baited, squinting against the sunlight, listening for-
"Fully charged!" Delight, pure delight gives buoyancy to every letter, and a grin spreads, dangerous over your lips, drinking in the realization, the panic in your adversary's eyes, the steely edge, the useless anger as he sees his end come before him.
Sanguine. The last. Death.
It comes before black. And after the black comes cold cement.
Respawn.
Your gloved fist strikes the ground, and now your freshly formed knuckles are bruised. "FUCK." You pound both hands on the cement for good measure, palms open, and push yourself up off the floor. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK."
Completely un-fucking-acceptable.
And worst-you have no idea what the fuck happened. Setting your jaw, shoulders tense, you draw your shield and Gyrojet, and march for the door. You flick the switch on your earpiece.
"What's the current objective?"
["Holdin' the fourth point,"] Sniper's voice crackles through the line.
"Thanks," you grunt, and race across the packed soil. You pass the first point, the second, the third without incident. Engineer is set in a narrow junction between the third and fourth points, and you give him a wave as you pass. You might have spoken, if you weren't so dead set on learning what, exactly, became of the previous plan.
You wonder what happened to Medic. He had not been in respawn with you. But he had not been the one to reply on the radio, either.
You would have thought, had it been your fault, that he would have some choice words for you. Hell, you have some choice words for you.
The swarm of gunshots grows louder, the distant buzz becoming a roar, and you should slow down, take the next turn cautiously, but you don't particularly care. You snap your shield to full height all the same, skirting the edge of the shed, and come upon the fourth point.
Demo is there, cackling as the BLU soldier stumbles upon some sticky bombs, and so is Heavy, providing cover fire over the most direct route to BLU's base. Pyro is sweeping the area. The enemy scout attempts to breach your team's defense, but even without your aid, you know he won't get far. You join them on the point all the same, shield raised and ready, and fire a couple shots at the boy.
"How long?" you ask Heavy.
"Ten more minutes," he says. "Can hold easy if we are not distracted."
A solemn nod in agreement.
The BLU scout has gotten too close to Pyro, and is wailing in the consequences.
You wonder how appropriate it might be to ask after Medic and the events you have missed. You elect to wait, at least until this round end, and perhaps, if you feel like a gamble, ask the doctor himself.
"Damn bloody unfortunate that last bit o' dyin' ye did," says Demoman.
Your fingers tighten on your weapons with a squeak of leather. "Yeah." You fire a shot at the enemy soldier who has seen fit to peek around the corner. He disappears before the bullet hits. "What happened?"
"Spy," he says, casting you a glance; you're not sure if it is meant to be read as amused or sympathetic. "Put a fookin' knife between yer ribs."
"Oh." You fire another shot at a flicker of blue between spots of cover.
Well, that was certainly delightful. And explained why you died so quickly; that bastard knew how to pierce a heart with ease-that you had learned in the last week. It leaves you as disoriented in respawn as a sniper round to the head.
"Medic was right bloody fookin' pissed."
That has your attention. You spare him a glance. "Where is he?"
"Respawn pretty soon I shouldnae wonder." He fires a grenade with a hollow thwhoomp. "INCOMIN'!"
You catch your cheek between your teeth. "Did the spy get him, too, or…?"
The grenade had ricocheted into the alley and, by the agonized sound that followed the boom, took a man or two with it.
Demo utters a raucous laugh. "Nah-ye think the spy got away after that, what with the doctor right behind 'im like that?"
Your brow furrows. Put like that… "No, probably not." Unless he was very, very fast. It had happened before.
"An' besides, he had a full uber."
You're not entirely sure what that has to do with anything except to reflect further shame on the situation and your performance. Evidently, this thought shows on your face, even as you squint across the field to fire at the enemy pyro, weaving across the sand.
"Mr murr mr mr mrmrph." Your own pyro is at your elbow now, possibly squinting behind their mask at the doppelganger quickly approaching. Their hands are occupied by the flamethrower, even as you reflexively glance at them for guidance.
Heavy's mini-gun is spun up and ready again before you even think about engaging the enemy directly, and the BLU is soon no more than a corpse riddled with holes.
"I am not good at understanding little pyro's language," the Russian admits as Demo produces a bottle from one of the pockets on his vest and takes a swig. "But, is possible they explain uber. Is correct?"
"Murmrph!" Pyro removes one hand long enough for a thumbs-up.
"Medic used it on himself," Heavy supplies.
You blink. "I… didn't realize that could be done without somebody else."
He shrugs mountainous shoulders. "Is recent development. But before you."
What a strange expression, before you. "So, the energy doesn't have to be shared? Is it more efficient that way?"
"Is same, maybe?" Heavy shrugs again and spins up his gun as the BLUs seem ready to regroup. "Best to ask Medic."
Not that you expected otherwise, really. Your next question is one you must swallow as your counterpart, the BLU heavy, and the BLU medic round the corner.
You can't help the muffled feeling of satisfaction and excitement. Here's somewhere to throw your energy after that royal cock-up. You won't make the same mistake.
The folding stock slides off your belt in half a moment, snapping to length, and you affix it to the butt of your Gyrojet with a few turns of the wrist. You brace the barrel on the top of your shield, peering through the Plexiglas view as Pyro and Demoman fan out on either side of the point for cover behind crates and half-finished walls. Your finger edges the trigger, but no one fires. Not yet.
BLU Medic is supporting the heavy, leaving your doppelganger to take point alone. Your teeth creak. A dull ache registers in your jaw. Her gear is the same as yours—you know where a ballistic shield tends not to cover on the move, and, you're beginning to learn, she's careless: the legs are a prime target, and her dominant hand, too, currently grasping her howdah. Your brow creases. She can't fire without exposing herself. What's the game?
Heels dig into the sand, her pace quickening.
You fire the first shot.
Hit.
You can't hear her swear over the whirring of two miniguns, and you drop to your knee for best cover as a dozen bullets rattle the Kevlar. Your shield trembles. You hold steady.
Heavy laughs raucously over the din.
The BLU specialist has dropped to a similar defensive position there in the middle of the field, likely nursing her calf, perhaps preparing to switch weapons since she won't be moving until the medic advances far enough up the field. But, his way is slow-going. Though the BLU heavy can lay down a devastating path of cover fire, they are outnumbered. Demo has lobbed a half-dozen grenades to harry their way. Pyro is slipping closer, dodging around to get behind, take out the deranged doctor—fuck. Your stomach drops into your boots as the minigun swings around to scatter bullets at Pyro's feet, and you fire three desperate shots, but the heavy does not so much as flinch.
Not that you should have expected him to, really. You know the thrill.
But Pyro doesn't stop, either.
You can see the bullets tear through their suit, their skin, blood shining at their legs and thighs, but they're still running like a thing possessed. Steps waver and wobble, but as soon as a rubber finger pulls the trigger and a roar of flame lights the air, the drumbeat of boots under bullets and explosions alike fall steady, a scarlet demon wielding fire like nature—elemental, sudden and devastating.
But they fall, bloody, beaten just as the first flames licked the heavy's skin. You ready your pistol again, hot anger rising in your throat. A sharp word can be heard, cracking over the rattle of your own team's minigun, one that sets your teeth on edge. You know the BLU medic had been counting down to uber. Pyro was felled too soon; the doctor's sharp, indecipherable word is in reprimand.
And every time you shoot, you only aid them. Your only real hope is one of Demo's explosives, that one of them might blow the pair away—too much damage all at once to be repaired. Much like a knife to the heart.
Where the fucking hell is Spy when you actually need him?
["Demo, you stay right where the bloody 'ell you are."]
You freeze and flick your gaze to the Scot's last known position. He's still there—but barely. He growls over the comm: ["Sniper, can't ye—"]
CRACK!
The BLU specialist slumps forward, fragments of blood and bone spattering her shield, eyes that are yours red and wide and hollow. You draw a hissing breath, stomach writhing in your gut. The heavy and medic had been drawing dangerously close. This is one line of defense out of the equation.
You want to throw up.
["That's yer openin'—make use of it!"]
You tear your eyes from the corpse. Sniper must have someone advancing on his position. The three of you are on your own to hold the point. Odds in favor of RED again as long as the medic doesn't hit uber before you can take them down.
A deep breath of hot air coats your mouth with dust. You perch the Gyrojet's stock on your shoulder, sure to keep the BLUs from seeing you loosen the Lancaster. You're the only one with a shot at getting close. If you can get in and surprise them with a point-blank round from the howdah, Heavy and Demoman can surely finish them with ease…
You flick the switch on the earpiece. "I'm going to rush," you say, low. "I might not get past the heavy, but as soon as one of you gets a clear shot, finish it—blow both of 'em to Hell."
["Da."]
["Aye, lass—good fukin' luck."]
One breath. Two. Three.
Up you launch yourself as the Gyrojet clatters down to the point, creeping just low enough to the ground to provide maximum cover for your legs; if you don't make it, after all, this exercise means nothing. And you're going to make it, by God.
The shield rattles along your arm, screaming at you to stop and stand your ground, but you push forward, toward the incessant whir and clatter of the minigun, toward the mountainous man shouting thick curses and phrases that fall on ears deaf to them. There is the tremor of your arm, the weight of the pistol in your hand, the subtle shift of cracked soil beneath your boots, the pull of muscles under skin as your surge forward. The Lancaster's hammer clicks under your thumb. You wait until you see the heavy's snarling face over your shield, and even as he raises his gun higher, you pull your howdah over your shield, level it with the man's chest.
Perhaps the recoil will push your aim back just enough to give you a headshot. Regardless, this should be the opening your teammates need. Either way, your wrist will be broken beyond proper repair as soon as you pull the trigger.
You pull the trigger.
BOOM. CRACK! AH, YES THAT'S THE STUFF. PAIN. SEARING PAIN. OH, FUCKING SHIT.
At least you'll be dead in a moment anyway. The sight of the BLU heavy's throat blasting apart like an overripe tomato is more than satisfying enough to carry you through respawn.
But you're alive. The heavy is at your feet and your hand is fucking useless, the howdah at your feet with the heavy. And, the BLU medic—
Snarling, with blood spilling from his lips until a scarlet hand draws silver across his throat, spills a river of red-hot gore, and he joins his partner in the dust. Your own medic stands in his place, grinning like the pair of you had never been through respawn at all.
"Zhat," he says, eves glittering over blood-spattered spectacles, "vas doctor-assisted homicide!"
You can feel the chuckle start deep in your chest. Is it the wordplay or the adrenaline? The little titter quickly rises into full-on guffaws. Your wrist is aching straight through the bone, but it's filled with pins-and-needles now, heavy, like someone stuffed it full of cotton. You keep laughing, and decide not to look. Medic is laughing, too, and you wonder if yours sounds quite as mad as his.
He wipes his blade on his doppelganger's coat, smothering the last of his chuckles, hangs it back on his belt. "Here." He draws the medi-gun, switches the power on.
You sober quickly, raising your arm to offer your damaged hand, though it is not necessary, and sigh when the beam is focused on your skin, swims through your blood, and bite back a scream when the bones of your wrist snap back into place without ceremony. "Thank you."
Amusement crinkles the edges of his eyes as he removes his glasses with one hand to try and buff out the blood on his sleeve. "Try not to mangle your hands anymore for the good of zhe team, hm?"