A whistle in the wind.
Spy lives up to the nicknames he's so kindly received; snake, two-face, shapeshifting rat, all the heinous names he couldn't give two shits about. He lives up to them with pride. Sneaking around is his specialty, cat-like reflexes allowing him to spook any target he's set his eyes on.
Fresh, unstabbed backs.
The satisfying way the knife sinks past the clothing and into the skin. Like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Having this job sure as hell ain't easy, but it's worth it all just for that delicious sensation.
The Frenchman yearns for that feeling, and he'll challenge himself to make it more graceful than one could ever imagine. Hiding away in the shadows like a coward for minutes at a time? So be it. It's worth it in the end, getting that wonderful chain stab in the last few seconds of the round, saving his team's ungrateful asses. He finds amusement in proving them wrong.
Spy remains vigilant as he stalks through the halls of BLU team's base on Well. He can hear the nearby respawn doors open and slam, mumbles of BLU members slipping unsuspectingly into his ears, hoping to pick up some sort of information.
Cloaked, he stands stagnant, observing how a drunken enemy Demoman downs another one of his poison jars, burps, and finally collapses onto the floor, snoring away like it's hibernation season.
Spy cringes and shoots an abysmal glare of disgust.
Luckily it's not long until the drunken wretch gets a few disappointed stares from his own teammates, a Soldier dropping his rocket launcher like deadweight and taking the bleary Scotsman by the collar. "Get your skirt-twirlin' pansy ass off the ground and FIGHT, MAGGOT! Laziness will NOT be tolerated in MY war, you one-eyed CROSS-DRESSER! That is an ORDER!"
Spy unconsciously makes way for an Engineer strolling past him, not batting an eye to the empty space. He can hear the Texan mumble on about, "Dumb sons a bitches…"
At this point the cyclops has been dragged out by the American. The room fades into a silent echo.
That's his cue.
The cloaked rogue slithers further up into the BLU base. A long line of windows display the chaotic action taking place outside. Taking a few curious glances, Spy recognizes the same Soldier from moments earlier soaring across the skies and vanishing behind a RED train car. Explosions and blood curdling screams sound off like mourning doves in a foggy sunrise.
Spy realizes he can't seem to find any difference between a normal life in France and waking every morning to all-out war.
Yet a long drag of his cigarette convinces him it's nothing to worry about.
Not right now.
Putting his focus back into his job, Spy notices a lone Sniper ahead. His back is turned, untouched and unstabbed, yet Spy has to hold himself back when there's an obvious obstacle in his way:
A razorback.
Even with the extra protection the Sniper looks behind him every few seconds, like some neurotic child looking out for their parents. Spy finds this obscenely pathetic, how anxious can a single man be? For a camping scoundrel, he sure as hell isn't efficient.
Or professional.
And almost automatically Spy taps the barrel of his revolver. Just a few shots should do it… he'd be able to save his Medic some time for an Über…
…
…
It's not worth it.
Reluctantly he decides against killing the Bushman. Anything could go wrong. One missed shot and he'd be dealing with more than just a worrier. With that kind of paranoia, it'll be awhile before the Aussie actually locks onto someone and manages to hit them.
Besides, Spy recalls an absent minded remark his own Sniper made one ceasefire night, and he was only answering a crude question Scout kept pestering him about, but the rare happening of Sniper talking to anyone was enough to let Spy eavesdrop as he took a long swig of old wine.
"Mate, look, whatever's comin' for me, it comes second. Ya take the shot first, then deal with whatever's goin' on in the background. Professionals get the job done."
"Yeah, gotcha," Scout replies as if he isn't even listening. "But like get dis; what if ya need ta piss?"
Spy wouldn't blame Sniper if Scout was on top of his list of pet peeves.
The gun is tucked away and Spy takes meticulous effort to not draw attention to himself. The final floor of the base allows him to take a look down to the first floor, and he's able to have a front row seat to an enemy Scout complaining to a Heavy about how, "Frickin' crits aren't even fair! Da hell was dat crap?!"
"Hoh," the Russian laughs back. "Little baby afraid of big scary man with launcher."
"Hey, YOU go out dere and try taking one to da face!"
"With pleasure."
The two exit, taking their cacophony with them. Rolling his eyes, the Frenchman continues, arriving at a room where the hallways split. A large window displays the exact location of BLU's Intelligence, and there he can see the same enemy Engineer from earlier rummaging through the compartments of his dispenser next to a sentry. It hums as the BLU Pyro awaits jovially at the Texan's side.
Little trinkets of metal and ammo are set aside until he finally retrieves what looks like a small lighter. With a warm grin he hands it to the arsonist, and Spy can almost see a sadistic smile form on that mask.
How the laborer deals with that creature is beyond him.
Engineer seems to be conversing, so Spy takes his chance to enter the large and empty room holding the briefcase, ignoring the fact there are two unstabbed backs ready to be used as a knife holder. Invisibility is a wonderful thing to have. Perhaps he could convince Scout that eavesdropping is something rather enjoyable. Like the sport he's so fond of. At least it would shut him up.
All is silent as Spy simply observes from the right.
That is, until:
"ALERT! The enemy has taken our Intelligence!"
The voices rings loud and nearly scares the daylights out of the man, almost forcing him out of his cloak, yet saving himself from a sentry disaster as he takes cover behind a steel beam. He hears the Texan laugh along with Pyro and what he assumes was a high-five. A single sigh of relief later, the Frenchman is back on track.
Knife gripped tightly in his gloves.
"I ain't gunna be angry, son," the toymaker says. "Y'all can go an' do yer own thing. Ah'll be fine by mahself."
Pyro makes a noise of refusal.
"Suit yerself, ah' suppose."
How adorable. It's so pathetic it's cute.
The sentry's beeps somewhat distract Spy from hearing exactly what they're saying. His goal remains the same; get that Intelligence and maybe pass it along, most likely getting caught in the act of running away with the sacred object. Quiet steps that are hardly even audible is his forte.
Yet…
Spy focus comes to a pause when the room is suddenly dead silent. Strange, Spy thinks, the turtling coward normally doesn't keep quiet for this long. Nothing comparable to Scout, although the idle hum of a song is expected…
He takes a step forward, emitting a small, almost nonexistent clack of his shoe. The Frenchman's eyes stare into the back of the laborer's head, watching as both he and Puro stare at each other in silence. What the hell?
"Y'all hear that…?"
Engineer is as quiet as Spy himself. Pyro recoils in silent bewilderment, looking around momentarily before answering with a muffled, "No."
And the snake almost trips in his attempt to silence himself. Despite being cloaked, being as still as a statue came from pure desperation, as if the floor creaked beneath him and alerted the entire base he was here. He can't fail now. He's come all this way.
Watching Engineer equip his Wrangler to cease the sentry's beeps is enough to make him cease his own breathing.
And like the sentry itself, the Engineer turns, turns to face Spy's direction and aims the laser all along the upper balcony, and at first Spy doesn't think much of it, yet until the bastard starts firing. The sentry violently shoots bullets that pierce the stone wall, making a neat line along the peripheral. In the heat of the moment Spy ducks, just barely avoiding getting his suit torn to shreds.
His breathing has picked up.
And like premature storm thunder, Engineer's words send an unfamiliar feeling surging through Spy.
"Pyro. Someone's here."
Dread leaks through his cloaked form and oozes into his blood. Stone cold shivers turn him into a statue come to life.
Merde…
He has to relax. This has happened several times before in the past. Around Soldier. Nearly got his face shoveled in, but managed to remain quiet long enough to convince the dumbbell it was just his imagination. Around Heavy. Accidentally bumping into the lardass almost got him littered with bullet holes.
Yet this situation is entirely different.
It's like the toymaker's got a sixth sense, if Spy can accurately describe it. A loaded shotgun is in his hands as Engineer begins patrolling the side of the room Spy is occupying. Pyro follows his orders and starts spychecking the opposite end.
Spy doesn't dare move a muscle. Huddling himself in a corner almost feels like he's getting himself killed. Each passing second the Texan moves closer, marching up the steel stairs, hidden eyes focusing on nothing as he stays vigilant. The snake's eyes lock onto the suspicion in the Engineer's facial features, watching, like a predator against prey, but the answer to who is who is a mystery.
The Engineer moves closer to Spy's corner.
He doesn't know. He couldn't know. There's no way he knows.
Yet the pounding heartbeat in his chest sounds like a percussion of cannonballs. Can the he hear it? He can't, right? Did he implement some other strange machine into his body to detect someone's heartbeat? That's just impossible to fathom, why — why is he coming so close?
The man has himself trapped, trying frantically to control his breathing and be as a calm as any normal person. The corner locks him in place, like a rabbit in a snare, at the mercy of the predatory Engineer, and suddenly his body's mechanisms almost spiral when—
—the shotgun is lifted towards him.
Spy has never imagined this before. He can't die here, he just can't, he'd have to start from scratch, all the way from the start, and he's made such an effort just to get here—just to fulfill his role and prove his team that he can be of use, that he's proud to be nothing more than a whistle in the wind, but now it's like his life has flashed before his eyes as he recalls his last few living moments—the Demoman, the Soldier, the Scout and the Heavy, that coward of a Sniper…
He observed and watched all of it, and now he's staring down the barrel. A bullet winks at him, the Texan muttering words darker than any magic Merasmus has cursed him with, face dead with murderous intention, the low tone comparable to Medusa's gaze.
"Son, why don'tcha make this easier for tha both of us,"
Like a whistle in the wind, he simply observed.
"and just show yerself?"
…
…
…
Any second that took place after that wasn't accounted for. Spy hadn't moved, not an inch, not even when the grease-monkey stared unknowingly into Spy's face and showed him exactly what loaded bullets look like. For about ten seconds the men stand there face to face, the Frenchman holding his breath as if his life depended on it.
It does, in the most fucked up way possible.
"Welp," Engineer finally sighs, shrugging as he turns his back on Spy—as he turns his unstabbed back on Spy. "Pyro, ah' reckon—"
"Should've taken the shot, laborer."
A deft hand over the mouth and Spy almost furiously sinks his knife into the Texan's back—the moron got what was coming to him. Making a whole show out of this just to play it off like he had a hunch of some kind. Panic wells in the shorter man's body before he gives out, dead on the floor and blood pooling around him.
Like a whistle in the wind, Spy, finally, reveals himself.
Disguised as the toymaker himself, he snatches the loaded shotgun and puts on the best acting his dignity can manage. "Pyro, ah' reckon we're fine."
"Mmmph?"
"Don't worry yerself too much. Ah' got this room covered, y'all go on and help Doc, alrighty?"
The tilt of the creature's head gives off ambiguous messages, but is settled with a playful shrug and muffled, "Okay!" He skips off like a child in a candy store.
…
The sapper does its job, first the sentry and then the dispenser, and Spy can finally take a moment to himself to enjoy a smoke after all he's seen on the way here. The explosions of the toys are like music to his ears.
And almost on cue, a loud, satisfied victory cheer sounds out for him:
"The enemy has dropped our Intelligence."
Heaving up the scared object, the Spy tosses his burned cigarette onto the corpse of the toymaker on his way out.
Like a whistle in the wind, he's a two-faced snake, a shapeshifting rat, and having this job sure as hell ain't easy, but it's worth it all just for that delicious sensation.
He's a professional that got the job done.