Apologies for the delay again-finally got a job with insurance and stuff (extraordinary, right?), so I really don't have as much time to work on my writing, but I think I'll start using my lunch break for that purpose... we'll see what happens! In any case, I have no plans to cancel the fic, so don't you worry. That said, I do have a fair portion of chapter 30 written already. Thank you all so much for being patient, and special thanks to Sov for beta-ing this chapter.

Warning in this Chapter For: hangover, vomiting, blood, graphic violence, torture

You certainly might have thought the light filtering through your little window was beautiful if it weren't driving a nail straight into your pounding skull.

Oh hell you made a mistake last night.

Somewhere in the base, there's a bugle trumpeting in time with each throb of your head.

Oh shit.

You sit up, wipe the sticky remnants of drool off your cheek. Apparently you had one amazing fucking sleep but as your stomach rolls and the veins in your head thump an awful jive you wonder whether it was remotely worth this.

To make matters worse, if Soldier is already sounding that blasted bugle, that means you're fifteen minutes late, and that means no breakfast. Ugh-not that you want any. You pass a rough hand over your aching eyes, squint across the room, and try not to let your stomach heave. A little water might be in order. An aspirin if you can keep it down. You scoot gingerly toward the edge of your bed, careful not to give your stomach even the slightest reason to rebel.

And there's glass on the floor.

You groan, glaring through the morning light to make sense of it. You don't remember carrying any alcohol to bed with you last night. The water bottles are made from plastic. And-

The shards spread over the floor are few, and they're amber, and sprinkled among them… pills. Vitamins. Your respawn vitamins. A frustrated sigh escapes your lips, and your head aches. You must have remembered to take one and dropped the rest in the process. Well. You'll clean that up later. For now, you swing your legs off the mattress and avoid the mess in order to dress for the day.

You almost trip and fall into your wardrobe.

What a day this will turn out to be.

[Mission begins in ten minutes.]

You have no idea how you're even standing and wearing, not just pants, not just an entire uniform, but two guns and a ten-pound shield. Under blinding fluorescents. With every click and greeting and chuckle before seven o'clock in the morning entirely too fucking loud. But you did this to yourself, so you stand at the ready, wishing for respawn.

Wishing for it-now that's just sick.

Your only condolence is that you have seen neither Sniper nor Demoman since the day began. But that doesn't keep you from wanting to vomit all over your boots.

"Guten Morgen!"

"Shit!" You thump into the nearest locker and almost ruin your boots after all, glowering into the bright fluorescents with a squint where Medic stands perfectly preened and grinning as though he'd suddenly apparated and verbally assaulted you on purpose.

"You look terrible, if I may say so, Specialist."

Definitely on purpose.

"Thanks," you croak, and attempt to scrape what's left of your dignity off the floor by standing straight, folding your arms tight over your chest.

Medic rocks merrily on his heels. "A bit too much to drink?"

"How could you tell?" This is not helping the throbbing in your skull one bit.

"Vell, I haven't seen Sniper yet this morning-or Demoman, either. Now, coupled with the lovely shade of green you're wearing, it was-"

[Mission begins in five minutes.]

You do an incredibly poor job of suppressing a groan. The Administrator's voice is not soothing in the least. "Do me a favor and let me die in the first thirty seconds. I'll try to take somebody with me."

The doctor outright laughs, and it sends a brand new set of needles through your brain. "No, no, Specialist, no need."

At this rate you'll have a frown permanently etched on your face. "It sure feels necessary to me."

"What I mean to say is that this is something the medigun can fix."

The first good thing you've heard all morning. "What-really?" You direct a reverent glance at the medical marvel on his back.

Medic nods. "Oh, yes, quite easily."

You draw a deep, slow breath. Relief, only seconds away. "That would be… fantastic."

A beat. Two. Three.

"Medic?"

"Yes, Specialist?"

"You're… not going to help?"

"No." He smirks.

You should be angry. But all you can manage is a slack jaw and a dumb "Why not?"

[Mission begins in two minutes.]

His Cheshire-cat grin only broadens. "You have a lesson to learn."

"You-" Your hands clench, unclench against your coat, in the crooks of your elbows. "You-" A stab of dark, throbbing pain as you feel your blood pressure spike unreasonably. "You-asshole."

Medic chuckles, and there's a fucking twinkle in his eyes and even though you think you'll actually spill your guts all over the floor if you move the slightest inch, you have a mind to sock that look of his smug face anyway-

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNIN'!"

Oh god oh god fucking stars across your eyes too loud what the fuck.

[Mission begins in one minute.]

Your vision rights itself just in time to see a swaggering figure cruise through the locker room right for you. "Demo-how?"

He chuckles, giving you that one-eyed wink that's only slightly less annoying than Medic's smarmy grin this morning. "Lass," Demoman says, "I have a secret, so take it from me: as long as yeh've got a new drink in ye," He takes a quick pull from a hip flask, "you'll never be regrettin' the last one."

Roiling stomach be damned, you're up for any kind of help. You hold out a hand. "Please."

[Three...]

"No!" The doctor waves a hand, and you're immediately reminded that you still want to punch him. "This is a habit no one needs to start-"

[Two…]

"Especially not your pet project, right?" Scout calls from where he leans on the lockers.

[One-]

Medic's brow knits together. "Now, listen here-"

[-Go!]

Even your cloudy senses recall with a sobering pang the sound of this particular battle, and you swallow down your nausea to thrust an arm at the doctor. "I swear, if you-"

"Spesh, you don't gotta-"

"We fight now." Heavy pushes between you. "The other team." He gives a pointed frown.

"Indeed." You nearly jump out of your skin as Spy uncloaks far too close, the spicy curl of smoke reaching your nose-and this time, you do... chuck it, so to speak. Fortunately for you, not on Spy's patent-leather, but on a nice, bare piece of concrete reached by one desperate, clumsy scramble.

You heave. And heave. And heave. And heave.

Gasp. Spit.

"Kill me," you croak.

And there comes an unexpected, answering groan: "Only if ya shoot me first, sheila."

You can hear the squeak of rubber as Pyro throws up their hands. "Mph mm mmmph."

"Don't ya worry, Pyro. They'll be cleanin' up their own messes after we win this thing, won't ya'll?" You can't even get out another sound before your stomach clenches again. Not that you actually want to know what Engie means by messes, plural, and he apparently doesn't expect an answer as a shuffle of boots moves toward the battlefield. "C'mon, partner; let's get set."

You're sure this will be more embarrassing after you die, and you're suddenly not sure if you'd rather stay here on the floor or face the inevitable mockery.

A hand pats your shoulder as your fight the weakness spreading into your arms, the concrete threatening to cut into your palms. "Hey, ya got this," says Scout.

You try to chuckle, but it comes out as a sad splutter. "Thanks."

"Just try not to stain the floor too bad, huh?"

You take it back: embarrassment starts now.

"Yeah."

He gives you a teasing nudge. "See ya out there, Spesh."

"Uh-huh." You spit again as the boy jogs off.

Well, on the bright side, at least you're under contract now, and a little thing like a hangover isn't going to get you kicked out. Not today, anyway.

But that little bit of sunshine doesn't keep you from adding another three tosses to your acrid mess.

Hell, you made a mistake last night. But, you made that bed, so you're going to have to lie in it. Of course, you'll be lying in it with trembling legs, a weak stomach, and tongue that sticks to the roof of your mouth, whilst smelling delightfully of vomit-but lie in it you shall. At least, until you hit respawn and life is once again its usual rosy hell.

Rosy-that's funny because you're on the RED team, and it's… red… and…

You spit one last time and push yourself up with shaking limbs.

It wasn't actually that funny.

Your aching eyes make a quick sweep of the locker room to see how Sniper is fairing-but he's nowhere to be seen. Apparently that bastard managed to show up at the last damn minute and still beat you to the fight.

"Oi, you done lollygaggin' yet?"

He's standing just outside, leaning precariously against the wall with his rifle in hand, sweat rolling down his face. Sniper's voice may be steady, but you know he's not much better off.

"Are you?"

" 'm not lollygaggin'. Just checking up on yah to give you some advice."

The Lancaster makes its way to your hand as you join him under the damnable sun. "Really?"

He nods-slowly, mind you-with a smirk. Until last night you hadn't known he could twitch a lip, smirk, grin, or otherwise smile. "Professionals," Sniper said, "should have standards."

Your head is throbbing far too much to play guessing-games, so another one-word response it is: "Standards?"

"Yeah. Like being on the field when the match starts." You open your mouth to inform him that he was just as sick as you when time was called, and is, in fact, standing here right now-but, pointedly, he taps the butt of his rifle twice in the dirt.

He's been out here since the match started. On the field.

Asshole.

But what passes your lips is an indistinct grumble.

Sniper wipes some sweat from his brow, a little grin irritatingly present on his face. "Oh-and one more thing."

You press a hand to your temples and squeeze, but it does nothing. Your cheeks are burning. Of all the chastisement you expected, you didn't consider any might come from your fellow hungover idiot-let alone come from your fellow and successfully embarrass you. "What?"

"You really shouldn't make such a fool of yourself."

Your blood freezes. That voice isn't-

Pain-and then the orange grit of soil on your cheek, in your mouth, your hands-your hands, where's your gun?

Cough; wheeze. Blink away the glare and the grime, there's your pistol-

Spinning away with the kick of a patent-leather shoe.

Fuck.

Blood clouds your vision as that damnable heel makes contact with your face, and the whole world is a bright, solid flash of blinding pain. Your arm won't obey to wipe the blood clean, lying uselessly in the dirt. You recognize now that it's where the pain first began-a knife under your shoulder to sever the tendons. Blood trickles over your lips. You spit.

"Asshole!"

A foot planted solidly on your back, even as you try to roll in the direction of the base. "Non, non," he says, too patient, too calm. Not smug, not amused-it sets a cold feeling in the pit of your stomach. "Fair," he says. "Revenge, I understand, mademoiselle… but taking more than your due?"

You scream as the toe of his shoe sinks into the wound at your shoulder, and the spy does not speak again until he's had his fill, and you're panting against the blood and the sand and the dirt. You grit your teeth.

"I will admit I did not think you had it in you, girl. Near-decapitation. No, that's not who you think yourself to be, is it?"

You gather all remaining strength into your undamaged arm; if you can just knock him off balance… One, two-crunch. You screech against the metallic tang and grit on your lips as a fresh wave of blood streams from your now-broken nose, head crushed into the sand with your adversary's weight.

"A military girl should have more discipline, even one dishonorably discharged."

Your heart doesn't have a chance to freeze, your mind no chance to panic at the implication that he knows because your world is bright white again with a blow to your side, sun streaming now through your bloodied vision, light catching on the edge of a blade as it plunges through your other shoulder. How no one can hear your screams as they echo around the compound, you don't know.

It occurs to you only now that your earpiece is lying on the shelf of your locker.

The best you can hope for a teammate's timely respawn. There's nothing to be done with arms that won't move and blood seeping steadily into the ground.

"Better," the spy says, so calm, so casual. None of the glee his medic showed, no wild excitement, not even the bloodlust you felt when dispatching this man days ago in the halls of your team's base.

You fear it will take every last drop of your blood before he's satisfied with his retribution.

"Now." He's half-standing on your chest, you can feel it, but you can't see more than white and crimson. "Your scout was the first to fall, and that gives us another…" You hear a click. "Seven and a half minutes, mademoiselle. All the time in the world, non?"

A groan escapes your bloody lips before your can pull it back.

The spy clicks his tongue. "Now, you Americans have a quaint little saying… 'Don't dish out what you can't take.' I do believe that applies here."

Your next breath ends in a rattling wheeze when the blade sinks between ribs.

"Considering what you did to me, you should have no trouble with this." And the flesh folds back together as the knife comes out.

Pain-you need-gone-gone the air is gone and you try again-catch, wheeze, whistle-no, no-

"How is it?"

Each breath seems to seize, stab, abort-not enough air and you're drowning, drowning in the sun and the blood and you try to make a sound pass your lips, please, please, please-

"Nghk-" Gurgle, gasp and it stalls again, stabbing, drowning-

"You will have to speak up."'

"K-ill me."

You would beg if you were able.

The whisper of fabric beside your prone form can't be heard over the rattle of your breath, but you can just make out a blue balaclava blocking the sunlight through your bleary eyes. A flutter of hope rises in your desperate chest.

"I would be inclined to fulfill such a plea, cherie-" His tongue lilts on his lips, too cold, too dry to mean mercy "-if you were not such a priority to your medic." The sun blinds you again as he rises.

Your breath comes hard, fast, desperate, chokes-no air-please-

"And please do tell him so."

Your chest is so heavy. You might be crying, but you're not sure, eyes and cheeks and forehead sticky with blood, painful little gasps passing your lips as vision wavers, darkens, only the tiniest fraction of air reaching your lung, not enough as your mind grows fuzzy, sluggish, drowning brain and lungs and maybe you'll die soon-

You feel more than hear the body drop at your side.

Distantly, so far away, you wonder who it is, hope it will be over no matter the color of this corpse.

"Specialist."

You might flinch if your body would allow. But-then-a sluggish realization as your brain ticks backward-the French lilt is different, softer-

"I… wish I had been here sooner. This is beyond a medi-kit." He stops, letting you process the words.

Please.

"All that I can do is end it."

Please, please, please. A rattling wheeze is all that escapes.

And then all is dark.

For those who were just waiting for the rivalry with BLU Spy to return... congratulations. And I'll admit, it was rather based on a tidbit we got in the newest comic where Spy offhandedly comments to Sniper: "Some of us would have liked to torture him." Please do let me know how you think this went, if you have any particular feelings on it.