Note: My thanks again to ScrapThat and to the Discord crew for taking a look at this chapter for me! Should further revisions be done after my editor takes a look, I'll update accordingly, as always.
WARNING for: blood, graphic violence, death, the usual
There are, after taking one before bed, only six pills rattling around in your bedside drawer, but when you wake, your mind is clearer than yesterday, the thin film that seemed to separate you from the battlefield dissipated. The itch like ants beneath your skin, however, is back with vengeance—but you hoped the battlefield would distract you sufficiently, if not alleviate the issue altogether.
Fortunately, it is so.
Unfortunately, the reason is you've spent more time in respawn than on the field.
And this is because, via the contract, your trench knife must replace the howdah.
Early morning, air still cool, you flee into a narrow alley, shield raised against an incoming rocket. Heels dig into cracked dirt as kevlar rocks against the explosive force. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the BLU demoman dodge between buildings at the other end; he hasn't seen you, not yet—so, planting your shield firmly against the soldier's onslaught, you take aim in the opposite direction with your Gyrojet. It takes three shots to fell the unsuspecting demo. Clip empty, you draw the knife, narrowing your eyes through plexiglass as the soldier runs screaming for your shield, barreling into you shotgun-first. Roll with the impact, shove him forcibly away with the ballistic, raise your blade, and—two barrels pointed at your chest.
Respawn.
Regroup with Medic. The enemy heavy defends the third point, bullets hammering like fists upon your shield, sun blazing upon your head. As soon as Scout comes around the other side, you'll be able to make your push forward; so you wait, watch—vibrations rattling painfully down your arm, soothed constantly by the hum of the medigun, a heady balance between discomfort and relief that buzzes at the base of your skull. Medic's breath at your ear lets you know that he's close enough to benefit from the shield's protection, sharp and shallow, waiting on the thin precipice between neutrality and action, just as you.
["'Bout eight seconds!"] warns Scout.
You shift slightly onto the balls of your feet, muscles ready, itching to go. Medic's weight resettles behind you, and you feel the shift in the air, his lips at your ear.
"Spez—"
A faint wheeze, breath wavering against the skin of your neck before dead weight slumps down against your shoulders, shield wobbling dangerously as you fight for balance, hand scrambling for the knife at your calf, drawing it up, mind racing because you just know—
A hot, sharp blade slides between neck and collarbone, vertically parting flesh down and down into your chest. Your head won't turn far enough, but you can see a blue, pinstriped sleeve, a bloodstained glove, and Medic's head lolling against your back as you support his corpse.
You want to swear, but there seems to be a hole through which the necessary air whistles. You want to return the favor, but your arm won't obey.
"Au revoir," the spy says blithely before a second, sharp pain colors everything mercifully black.
Second point. Sighting down the Gyrojet modded into rifle format, braced on the top of your shield, keeping the enemy pyro at bay with well-placed shots as Engineer hurries to finish the sentry behind you.
"I only need a minute and a half," he assures, and you believe him, the sound of metal on metal and the turn of a crank whirring behind you.
The pyro is no problem right now, not at this range. It's the approaching scout that gives you pause. You slide a few more rounds into the Gyrojet's chamber and fire three shots: one hits the pyro, but not lethally; the others completely miss the agile little bastard as he dodges and weaves his way into range. You duck your head as buckshot clatters against your shield, not yet close enough to impact you with much force. One more shot draws a thin line of blood on his thigh, and he stumbles, but makes it too close for the Gyrojet to be effective any longer. He fires again, and you crouch low, draw the knife. As soon as he raises the scattergun over your head at Engie, you snap to your feet, seize his shoulder with your shield hand, pull him in close—BANG!
Respawn.
Touch base with Medic again, back on the first point. Overheal lights your veins and draws strength to your limbs, but does little to assuage the sense of sinking morale.
You play a strange game of deadly tennis as the enemy demoman launches grenades your way, arcing through the air, leaving seconds to change angles and deflect them with your shield—all the while dancing around a minefield of stickies. Boots shuffle through sand and soil, kicking up dust; one wrong move, and it's over for you and the doctor. Uber would be ideal right now, but the risk of total annihilation is too great; you can't rely on the medigun to heal you quickly enough to build the charge.
It's the old-fashioned way, then, moving left and right in tighter and tighter arcs, around deadly mines half-hidden in dust and behind crates. Medic, ever in your shadow, following your footsteps exactly to the whispered rhythm of your Gyrojet, to the cadence of each explosive launch. You can feel him not far behind you, like there's an invisible thread keeping you on the same plane, not unlike the tempo that keeps dancers moving in time.
So you know exactly the moment that rhythm is broken, the catch and scuffle of a boot out-of-place.
This time, you twist in a tight arc, shield still pointed the enemy demo just in time to see Medic, teeth bared, folding over the medigun and onto the sand as the BLU spy tugs a silver blade from his back. You squeeze the trigger, but he's too close, bullet bouncing harmlessly off his suit before gaining velocity. The gun leaves your hand, spinning over the distance to crack him right in the forehead, but there's no time to savor the delicious look of surprise as you crouch—another grenade bouncing off your shield rather than exploding in your face out of nothing more than luck—and yank the trench knife from your boot, fingers folding into the brass knuckles.
You launch yourself across the narrow space, snarling. Sunlight glints on the decorative, silver barrel of a revolver. The toe of your boot catches on a blue—oh fuck.
Respawn.
Heavy, Pyro, and Scout have retaken the first point by the time you rejoin them, seething with embarrassment and frustration. It's like that BLU asshole is targeting you on purpose.
You push it from your mind as you rejoin the doctor again, crouching behind a pile of crates just before the second point, his mouth creased in a serious line. "Medic," you begin, snapping your shield to full height in preparation for the charge, "he's—"
"Ja, I know." He glances back down the path, eyes narrowed over his spectacles, like he's not sure the bastard in question isn't lurking about, though you have the sneaking suspicion he had to incubate in respawn along with you after the sticky grenade incident. "I should have been watching."
You blink. "It's not as though you can be expected to heal me, dodge mines, and have eyes in the back of your head."
"I should." He scowls. "But that's only one situation! Zhis is the fourth time today."
Oh. This is only your second at the spy's hands. "We should kill his streak," you say absently. Maybe the spy is just having a particularly lucky day, and it's nothing to do with you at all.
"Yes." He's frowning, gaze unfocused like he's contemplating the next move, so you take the opportunity to survey the situation beyond the pine crates.
Scout is nowhere to be seen, but Heavy and Pyro are trapped in cover on the opposite side of the field, ducking sentry fire. The enemy engineer sits on the point with his sentry, your double crouched behind her shield alongside him, while in the alley some distance away, your team's demoman and soldier are locked in a tussle you can't quite see. Maybe the enemy heavy and medic are involved, but you can't be sure.
"It's rather irritating he's decided to be a nuisance," he murmurs. "We had such a nice chat, too."
Something about the way his voice trills on the word sets a shiver on your skin. You squint at the field, trying to gauge how far you can get before the sentry redirects its focus. "Do I want to know?"
When you chance a glance back, Medic's gaze is cast to the ground, shoulders so stiff that for half a second, you expect to see blood blooming on his coat. But there is nothing, only the tight pull of fabric over his shoulders, and an uncomfortable crease between his brows.
"Medic?"
His head snaps up, an innocuous expression immediately plastered over his features. "It isn't important right now." The lightness that invades his tone is stark enough to make you suspicious. "I'll keep a better watch this time; if he comes, you will know."
You purse your lips, but the piercing sound of sentry fire has not stopped. You're needed on the field. "All right." Your bare fingers shift on the Gyrojet, resettling its grip against your gloved palm. "Are you ready?"
A firm nod as he flips the switch on the medigun, its healing waves flickering to life, flowing over your skin. "Jawohl."
Glance around the corner again. Pyro has moved into a nearby alley, but Heavy is still pinned behind a wide, metal crate. You shake out your shoulders, taking a deep, steady breath. Pick a target with your eyes, set your boots to the ground. "Ready—go!"
Together, you race onto the field, soles pounding on the cracked dirt. You watch the sentry, watch, watch until it begins to swivel on its axis, and you slide to the ground, shield up, Medic settling in behind you just as the rounds rain upon kevlar like hail. The hand holding your pistol comes up alongside your ear, and you extend one finger under the trigger guard to activate your radio. "Heavy, Pyro—I'll keep the sentry fire while you move in; slow and steady."
["Da."]
["Mmm mrmrph."] Across the field, if you turn your head, you can see Pyro flashing the "okay" signal.
Good. You click the button your earpiece once more, ignoring the steady drum of bullets that hums down your arm. Across the field, you see Pyro dodge forward toward a low, wooden crate just as Heavy steps out and shuffles to take position where they had been a moment before. Gyrojet bullets whistle from the point, but miss, and the sentry remains fixed on you.
The next move will be more difficult, as Pyro will almost certainly activate the sentry. So, like a well-oiled machine, you begin the slow walk forward, crouched low to the sand, knowing you can trust Medic to follow. Distant explosions echo off wood and aluminum, but you ignore them for now. The other half of your team will have to contend with that.
You keep an eye on Pyro as they go, nozzle of the flamethrower sweeping in a fine circle in front of them, holding steady—
They flinch, but don't slow when a bullet tears through their shoulder, instead pressing forward, faster, faster, beyond the next point of cover—
Shit. You launch to your feet, sprint, but not fast enough to get the sentry to halt its swing.
Another bullet punches straight through Pyro's chest, but still they run, like a mad, possessed thing, flames now leading their charge—
But the sentry shreds them to their knees before fire can lick even the edge of the point. Damn it… you slide back to the dirt, now mere meters from the sentry, the engineer, and your doppelganger, who leers at you over the top of her shield.
The flood of bullets be damned, you take a couple potshots at her smug visage and find yourself somewhat satisfied when she ducks back down where you can't see that damnable face.
A quick glance behind reveals Heavy, crouching so low behind a wooden crate that it would be comedic if you weren't concerned about his ability to get up and move without the maneuver costing him his life. Shit. It's perhaps… twenty feet back. Doable. "Medic." You fire two more shots toward the point just as the BLU specialist exchanges bullets of her own. You hiss when one tears a hot, bloody streak over your arm only for the medigun to seal it up in a heady rush of adrenaline.
"Ja." You feel his breath on your neck, in the hollow of your ear.
Any warmth on your face is almost certainly an effect of the sun. "If I give you sufficient cover, can we fall back for Heavy?"
You can almost see the twist of confusion that overtakes his features from tone alone: "What?"
"Can we do it?" Another three shots off the side of your shield, and you have to reload, taking care with the arm curled against kevlar, hardly mobile, rattling against sentry fire.
A dramatic little huff stirs your hair. "Yes, but try not to take too much damage! If you go, so do the rest of us."
As though you needed a reminder. You click back into the radio. "Heavy, we're falling back for you. Stay put until we're in range."
["Why?"]
Regret. "I don't have enough firepower to do it myself!" Perhaps on your next trip to respawn you'll trade back.
["Will be ready."]
"Thanks." You leave the link on, just in case you need it mid-field.
Fire off two more shots, then count silent beats, nodding your head slightly in time—one, two, three— so Medic can see. On four, you move, carefully, steadily rolling your boots back, shuffling in the sand, uncomfortably reminded of yesterday, retreating backward in the same movements. But this time, Medic is with you, the medigun's gentle waves soothing muscles before any burn or tear can set in. A frown creases your mouth as you realize that—by extension—you're making him do the very same thing, without benefit of healing.
Well, shit. The plan is, however, working, sentry gun rattling away uselessly at your shield. A glance through battered plexiglass tells you your doppelganger has started moving. You grind your teeth, but know you'll be close enough that Heavy can make a difference by the time she arrives. Let her come. You fire three more shots, this time at her exposed shins—but she moves too quickly, veering off to one side.
Steady, your pace is steady, but she's closing fast.
"Medic, get to Heavy and we can deal with her," you say, sending two more bullets to ricochet off her shield. "I've got the sentry."
He makes a sound of disagreement in his throat, but in the next moment, you feel the overheal fade from your skin, leaving an emptiness in its wake as he peels off toward the crate, boots sounding a speedy rhythm on sand. You push forward in turn, to the sentry, to your double, keeping all their deadly fire on your shield.
Bullets hammer on kevlar. Sun beats down upon head and neck. Gunshots ring and rattle in your ears. Silver glints to one side of your double's shield, a gun—but you can't identify it. A pistol, neither the Gyrojet, nor the Lancaster. One barrel.
Angle your body slightly to cover your side better as she fires, but it's a near thing, balancing defense against the sentry and the BLU rapidly circling toward your flank. But it doesn't matter, not as long as Medic makes it to Heavy without drawing the sentry's attention. Another shot below your doppelganger's shield, but she's already too close for the Gyrojet to do much damage, even if it had struck true. Holster it instead at your hip, discreetly reach into your boot.
Three paces and she'll be close enough to grapple.
Behind you, Heavy's minigun spins to life, the whir of gears and bullets bringing a smile to your lips.
Yes, this is more like it. Behind the shield, you ready your knife, flexing fingers around leather and brass in a reverse-grip. Sascha is more than a match for the sentry and its engineer (who, if he has any sense, will have fled) at this range, especially as its bullets fall, dead, on kevlar. The BLU specialist falls back two steps, three, but you follow, ready, itching to let the blade taste blood at last—
"Spatz! "
The doppelganger's face, framed in Plexiglass like a mirror, smirks, triumphant. What—
"Doktor!"
Spin on your heel, but you've missed the struggle, and your mind must scrape things back together, eyes flicking from one thing to another. Medic's fingers curled around the BLU spy's forearm, his other hand still wielding the medigun. The blade of a butterfly knife, gleaming scarlet, drawn from a pale throat in a familiar strike: angled down toward the heart, phantom memory seizing your skin in empathetic pain. The second strike as efficient as the first, precisely along the opposite artery—a beat, two, before blood pours in dizzying spurts.
Snap back into motion as Heavy swings the barrel of his minigun past you and pulls the trigger, but the spy is suddenly gone, gone—dissolved into a film of smoke.
A searing streak of pain lances through your shoulder, and you hiss, fingers nearly unfolding from the grip of your knife. Fuck—you barely turn in time to block the next bullet from your counterpart. Shit, shit—if you could make a damn lick of sense of anything that would make things so much easier—
Heavy, at least, still knows exactly what to do, redirecting Sascha toward the BLU's shield, forcing her to plant. Pain rages through your shoulder, but you hardly give a damn, fury fueling every step in a simple flanking pattern. Your double has no choice, even as she unloads her clip into your shield. If she changes positions, she'll be shredded by the minigun. If you had the Lancaster, she'd be dead already. So, the only chance she has now is to find a way through your shield before you've disarmed her.
Strange, how logically everything plays out even as the edges of your vision dance and flicker an angry red.
Stranger still that the Plexiglass between you and she catches a faint shimmer in reflection, just over your shoulder.
Twist—and your knife bites the air as the spy arches back, feet dancing over sand to dodge just out of reach. Fingers dive into the breast of his coat for the revolver, but you launch your body forward, shoulder catching his chest, crashing together into cracked, orange dirt. The spy wheezes on impact, fighting to regain breath as you yank your arm from the shield to catch his knife-hand and bring yours to break his nose, brass gleaming across your knuckles. Blood splatters. Pain cracks along your nerves, but you don't care. You raise the blade—
And your second thought, as you stumble out of respawn, is that you turned your back on an armed combatant.
The first, however, is a pure, simple: motherfucker.
Note: Fun Fact: The word "motherfucker" has been used as an insult since the late 19th century, chiefly in the United States, and by World War II it could refer to something "unpleasant, difficult, formidable, or oppressive" rather than just a colorful noun to describe someone. Then, in the late 50s-60s, started to become occasionally used as a positive descriptor.