"Ey, lass! Wait a mo'."
Spy, cursing again her inability to go invisible to her team, sank back down behind the crates she had been using for cover. A cleaver flew overhead and thunked into the wall.
Demo hunkered down next to her, balancing surprisingly well on her peg leg. "I got somethin' for ye." She began to dig around in her cavernous belt pouches.
Spy eyed her. More alcohol would be exactly the wrong move. Without her inhibitions firmly in place, it was guaranteed that she would turn up on Sniper's doorstep again, thoroughly ridiculous and despisable. "My thanks, but I truly do not desire any spirits -"
"Nay, nay. Different kind of spirits." She winked, probably.
Demo handed Spy a knife. Well, a butterknife, anyway. It still had some butter on it.
"Demo…" she began, feeling not particularly interested in the woman's shenanigans today.
She nodded toward the butterknife. "'Tis a curse for yer enemies. In case ye have any at the moment."
On the wall opposite, the red dot flicked into view, then slid away. Always watching.
She opened her mouth to ask if there was such a thing as a love potion and, feeling the self-loathing boil up again, closed it. "I have nothing but enemies," she said instead, dry. "You will have to be more specific."
"Easiest magic there be," said Demo, and grinned. "I already put all the imprecations and such on it. Cursed the knife good and proper, spent all evening drinkin' and thinkin' up some right good winzes for it. Ye just stab yer enemy - 'spect that'll be easy for ye - and they'll be in a world o' hurt."
Spy considered this. "What, exactly, would be in that world of hurt?"
Demo shrugged. "Oh, aye, I cannae remember exactly. Like I said, drinkin' and thinkin'. But!" she raised a finger, "I do remember being right pleased with it. Best cursin' I've done in a time, I'm sure."
"I see," said Spy. "You do understand this is me you are giving this very dangerous magical artifact to?" she asked, puzzled. "The Spy? You understand the kind of damage this could do in my hands?"
She wrapped it in a handkerchief, then slipped it into an inner pocket; the jingling thump it made upon landing there made her suppress a wince. She really did need to clean out her pockets.
"Oh, aye." Demo clapped Spy on the shoulder. "Yer a good lass, deep down."
Spy drew herself up and swept the hand off her shoulder. "I assure you, I am not. And I would strongly recommend you not insult me again with that kind of rank insinuation."
Demo snorted. "Sure, sure. Do you even believe that shite? Thought you spies were supposed to be good at lyin'." She wandered away. "My door's always open if ye get yer head outta yer arse."
Spy allowed herself a parting shot. "On the contrary, your door is always open because most nights you pass out on the threshold, ye blootered widdiefu."
It didn't make her feel any better.
-—-—-
Spy slammed the Alpine A110's door with more force than was necessary, then laid a hand on it in apology.
She'd taken the little sports car out for some aimless desert driving, hoping the wind and the speed and the wide-open spaces would clear her mind. She'd turned up her cassettes too loud and yell-sung along, for much the same reason.
It was fun, as it always was, but she kept seeing familiar spots. There, say, was that rock outcropping Sniper had hauled her up so they could watch the feral horses - the brumbies, Sniper had called them, and Spy had insisted they were in fact called 'mustangs' here in the States (both names were far too good for what were basically just the equine equivalent of dingos, in her opinion). It had been beautiful that day too, with the sky an endless expanse of cloudless cerulean.
Sniper had handed her her binoculars and stood just behind her, pointing out the little squiggles of mane and tail until she could pick them out with the binoculars. Her breath had been warm and sweet against Spy's cheek, her voice a murmur just for her ears.
Later in the privacy of her rooms, Spy had spent a miserable while imagining leaning back against that chest, imagining that arm reaching around her waist to hold her snugly close, imagining those murmuring lips dropping a fond kiss on her ear. All very disgustingly sappy nonsense, yes, but disgustingly sappy nonsense that her mind insisted on replaying over and over.
So now, in the BLU garage, her face was gritty with windblown dust, her head ached from the sun, and she felt little better than she had when she left.
"- hear a word I said, huh."
Spy carefully did not react. "I beg your pardon, I was considering whether bribing Scout to wash and wax would be worth the ensuing damage." She met Engie's eyes, projecting calm. "What do you require, labourer?"
Engie's lips twitched, and with a greasy hand pushed her goggles onto her forehead. "Bless your heart, I don't need nothin'. Looked like you might, though."
Spy let a little ice leak into her tone. "I assure you, I do not."
"Right, right." Engie rubbed her cheek, leaving a long smudge. "Say, I was thinkin' the other day. We could mod your lil' girl up a bit."
Spy gave her an incredulous look.
"Now now, hear me out here. What about secret compartments full of nails you could drop to pop the tires of anyone on your tail? Or rocket boosters? Betcha'd have fun with that." Her voice dropped in thought. "I could probably whip up some tech to change the paint color in a flash, though full-on invisibility might be a bit tricky -"
"Why on earth would I want any of that?"
"It's spy stuff, right? Think I saw a movie where there was an ejector seat, that'd be real easy to put in if ya like. Or a rotating license plate. Or functionality that lets it transform into some other kind of car, or a boat. Maybe if I installed some rotating -"
Spy rubbed her temples. "Ah, the movies. Of course. In a word: no."
Engie ran her hands along her cluttered toolbelt in a meditative kind of way. "Nah, you're right, an invisible vehicle might be more trouble than it's worth."
"I appreciate the offer, but I do not desire anything of the kind."
Engie was already wandering off in the direction of her blueprints, muttering to herself and chewing on the end of a pencil.
Spy watched her go, then stuck a note under her windshield-wiper.
ABSOLUTELY NO MODIFICATIONS - SPY
Hopefully Engie would see it before getting her hands in the guts of the vehicle. There was no telling what monstrosity might result from being under Engie's wrench for too long.
Also, all the secret spy gadgets Spy already had in her car would vaporize the woman if she touched anything.
-—-—-
Spy awoke at an ungodly, still-dark hour of the morning to frantic beating on her door.
In a moment, she was on her feet, re-masked, re-gloved, and be-knived. Shrugging into her dressing gown, she threw herself at the door.
"Emergency?" she snapped at Soldier on the other side, already mentally running through her various escape plans and contingencies. She had Plans A through G, of course, but ever since Sniper had become an integral part of her life, she'd added a few more through P to ensure her safety as well.
She abruptly realized that she didn't care if Sniper did not or could not return her affections; Sniper would be kept safe or Spy would quite literally die trying.
She was still reeling from this mortifying realization when Soldier bent over and glared at Spy's midsection. "YOU ARE THE COMMANDING OFFICER OVER YOUR OWN ORGANS, PRIVATE!"
Spy blinked. "I…what?"
"YOU'VE GOT TO GET THAT DOPE-OF-MINE OF YOURS ROARING!"
"...Of mine of yours?" Spy repeated, blankly.
"GREAT PHARAOH HATSHEPSUT, FOREMOST OF NOBLE LADIES, DIDN'T REIGN OVER ALL OF EGYPT FOR TWO DECADES FOR US TO BE SLAVES TO OUR NATOMIES!
Spy was starting to think, just the slightest bit, that there might not actually be an emergency after all.
"I CAN'T KICK THE CRAP OUT OF YOUR UTERUS FOR YOU, MAGGOT, SO YOU'VE GOT TO DO IT FOR YOURSELF!
Heavy's door crashed open. "Gott in Himmel! Has someone been kicking my uteri around again? Those are for an experiment, you Dödel!" Medic was somehow impeccably dressed.
Spy rubbed her face. "Soldier…I am going back to bed."
"ABSOLUTELY NOT! THAT'S GIVING IN TO YOUR PRIVATE PARTS, PRIVATE! PARTS!"
Down the hall, a tousled Scout poked her head out of her room, her huge, baggy t-shirt billowing around her. "Whoa, Spy has private parts? GROSS, man! Spy, why are you talking about your weird lady bits at four in the friggin' morning?"
"Soldier," Spy said through gritted teeth, "Kindly absent yourself before I carve you into a particularly unappetizing MRE."
"SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAKER SEX!" Soldier screamed, and leaned in conspiratorially. "you know what helps with internal insubordination? tiring out the bastards until they submit! that means CRUNCHES, that means PLANKS, that means PUSH UPS! that'll show 'em!"
Apparently inspired by her own speech, Soldier dropped down and started doing push ups. "four…five…YOU HEAR THAT, MAGGOT ORGAN? GET BACK IN LINE WITH THE APPEN-DIXIES AND THE BURSA COPULATRIX! nine…ten…"
Spy firmly closed the door in her face, and relocked all five locks.
-—-—-
Spy leaned against the railing of the little balcony, and tried to think of nothing but how beautiful the moon was tonight. There wasn't a scrap of cloud in the sky, so it shone a glorious, graceful silver over the sere and severe beauty of the desert.
The last time it was this full, Spy had borrowed-without-asking an Engie's telescope. They'd set it up behind Sniper's van, away from the lights of the base, and Spy had tried to remember how to use the blasted thing. They'd gotten it to focus eventually, with much bickering, and then fought-without-fighting over who got the first turn looking at the craters -
Spy hissed out a long breath, holding her face in her hands. She had to stop doing this to herself.
An awkward throat cleared awkwardly next to her, awkward. Spy struggled internally, and decided she didn't care anymore. She looked up.
"Kia ora," greeted the BLU Sniper. She made a desultory offer of the horrible Blue Streak beer, which Spy dismissed with a scornful look. BLU leaned against the railing next to Spy, and fiddled with the label on her own bottle.
She rhythmically tapped on the railing. Her heel made nervous little jumps on the ground.
Spy blew out smoke, and girded her mental loins for whatever fresh hell this was going to be.
The awkward silence pooled and stretched.
BLU Sniper took a deep breath, and said in a rush, "I was thinking about it, and I've seen some stuff through the scope, and I think I know a little of what's been bothering you."
"Indeed," said Spy, quellingly.
"Can't say I've ever talked to her, but she seems like a decent sheila. Good shot. For an Australian, anyway."
Spy said nothing.
"Seems to like you well enough."
Not quite well enough, Spy did not say, and kicked herself for the uncharitable thought.
"Er. Not sure what you see in her, though."
"Les goûts et les couleurs ne se discutent pas," said Spy, feeling every drop of ennui well up in her gallic soul.
"You what now?"
"One cannot argue with flavors or colors."
BLU Sniper looked blank.
Spy sighed again, and ground her cigarette butt into the concrete. "There is, as you might say, no accounting for tastes."
"Oh." Another awkward silence. "D'ya…want to talk about it?"
"There is nothing to discuss."
There was a quiet "Thank Christ."
BLU Sniper raised a hand, visibly hesitated, and patted the railing next to her hand as though Spy was a house of razor-edged cards, balanced precariously upon an anti-personnel mine full of hydrochloric acid. "Well, er, good luck. Do some fancy gun work, maybe she'll be impressed. Maybe get her a new pair of shooting gloves."
"I think," said Spy, quietly, staring out at the cold, barren desert, "This may be greater than what new shooting gloves could buy me."
-—-—-
Spy laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. She hadn't been sleeping well lately, and since alcohol was off the table she'd been starting to wonder if she should procure something tranquilizing from the infirmary. The difficulty, of course, was that Medic never labeled anything on her shelves, having either memorized the contents and placement of each jar or - and this was more likely - had no idea what anything was at all. She couldn't just ask Medic for assistance, of course; showing any kind of vulnerability would be abhorrently un-Spy at even the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Medic would have Questions. Even worse, she might have Solutions.
Her dreams, for a time, had been quite pleasant - Sniper's presence there (as unusually seductively and tidily dressed as she tended to be there) had been a welcome reprieve from Spy's usual slate of replays of bad past events and worse possible futures. Then, after the terrible Realization, the dreams had become a refuge for her pathetic, hungry heart - a sort of consolation prize. Platonic touch by day, fantasy by night. Spy was good at convincing herself that it was enough.
But ever since Spy had broken character and betrayed herself, they had left her waking more bitter and self-castigating than she was when she'd fallen asleep. She truly had ruined everything.
Spy rubbed her face. This was unsustainable. If she wasn't such a coward, she would have gone and apologized days hence. Tomorrow, she told herself firmly. Tomorrow she would finally summon the courage to take ownership for her deceptions. Sniper was a kind soul; she might even forgive Spy enough someday to let them play chess again once in a while.
Spy would make sure the tooth with the cyanide capsule was ready to go, in case things got awkward. Thank god for Respawn for times like -
There was a little red dot on the wall across from the window.
She had an abrupt jolt of miserable fear - even here, in her private rooms, Sniper had tracked her down to glare at her. This was the first time in days she'd left the curtains open, and she wondered, suddenly, if the dot had been lurking on the other side of the curtains those other nights too. How had Sniper even known these were her windows?
The dot looped and jerked on the wall for a few seconds. It reached the end of the wall and hovered there a moment, then flicked back to the left side again.
It was writing, Spy realized, in Sniper's characteristic cramped-but-precise hand.
please, the scope wrote, and flicked back to the left. please.
It repeated again, and again, and again.
Gotta give all of BLU their moment in the spotlight! Though some are closer to the mark than others. Ah, Soldier 3 (fr tho, sometimes exercise can help with internal organ insurrection...tire those maggots out enough and they can't cramp complain so bad). The bursa copulatrix, btw, is an organ found only in female butterflies. Best not to wonder if Soldier actually has one (thanks Medic) or not.
Spy's car will come up if you search "Alpine A110 old" in Google Images
My original plan was for this chapter and the previous to be one chapter, but I decided I like having the physical divide of the chapter break emphasizing the separation/time gap between Sniper meetings. Gives us time to miss her, just like Spy is. (Also it woulda been literally twice my usual chapter length, lol)
Oh gosh I can't believe we're already (finally) at the last chapter! On the one hand, resolving everything in literally the final chapter is very cliched and silly. But on the other hand, I did promise y'all shameless cliches in the tags, sooo...
-—-—-
winze - Scots; a curse (not in a swear-y way, but in a semi-magical way)
blootered - Scots; drunk
widdiefu - Scots; scoundrel, scamp, rogue
Gott in Himmel - German; God in Heaven, a general sort of exclamation of annoyance or surprise
Dödel - German; fool, idiot
kia ora - Māori (and adopted more generally in NZ English); lit. "have life/be healthy," used as an informal greeting or farewell, among other things. Think "cheers" or "g'day."
Les goûts et les couleurs ne se discutent pas - French; just as Spy says, it's equivalent to "there's no accounting for tastes." She just translated more literally there in an attempt to remain Frenchly mysterious lol.
bingus1man - Unfortunately - and I say this with the greatest affection - she is an idiot