Alright, so, there's something I should really address, and that's that this fic deals with two spies fighting each other who are both refereed to as Spy. If any part becomes difficult to figure out who exactly is doing what, then please tell me so I may correct it. Thank you.
(Note: This should no longer be a problem in about a chapter or two.)
BLU Base; Sawmill
Day 2
Spy marched into Medic's lab and slammed his palms down on his desk, "I need a lethal injection."
Medic barely flinched at Spy's sudden arrival and looked up as he adjusted his glasses, "No."
"I don't think you understand, doctor, I need that injection."
Medic stood and went about the room, searching the medical cabinets, "Spy, I don't care what you're feeling, or what you're going through, I'm not going to assist you with a suicide attempt."
Spy broke into a fit of laughter that gained him a concerned look from Medic.
"I'm not going to kill myself," he said once he'd regained his composure, "And I don't wish for the respawn canceling one either. No, I simply want a syringe full of enough lethal injection to kill a man of, oh, say, 63 kilos."
Medic arched an eyebrow, "And why would I give you that?"
"Because doctor, I need it to make a point."
Medic crossed his arms, "Oh do you now? And who exactly do you plan on killing?"
Spy sneered, "A friend."
Medic sighed and went to a cupboard to fill a small syringe.
Spy studied him as he worked. He'd never quite figured out if it was apathy, weakness, or a general disregard for the fate of others that made the Austrian doctor so easy to convince. Then again, he mused, perhaps it was a combination of all three.
"Here," Medic said as he offered Spy a syringe, "But if you use it on any member of BLU, I will personally rip the respawn chip from your throat."
Spy nodded and took the syringe up to his room to prepare for battle.
"Spy, get your ass to the BLU intelligence room now! There are sentries here and I do not see you sapping them!"
Spy touched the communicator in his ear to stop the sound of the yelling American.
With only minor resistance, he pulled his knife from the back of the enemy sniper, turned around, and ran across the wood boards bordering the top of the chain-link fence dividing the RED and BLU territories. At the board's end, he hopped over the top of the fence and landed on the other side with catlike grace.
From there, he chose the disguise of a demo and rushed into the tunnel adjoining a large pool of water near the BLU base.
"Going somewhere?"
Spy smiled faintly to himself as he turned on his heel to face his counterpart, "As a matter of fact, I am."
The BLU Spy watched him carefully, "You know how odd it is to hear your voice coming from Demoman's mouth."
"Ah yes, I suppose so," he said in a perfect imitation of the BLU Demo.
The BLU chuckled, then whipped out his revolver and fired twice.
Having partially anticipated the move, Spy dodged to the side, kicked off the wall and slammed his foot into the BLU's neck.
The BLU Spy fell to the floor, but managed to draw his knife as he did so.
Above him, the RED had already drawn his revolver. He took a hasty shot to his enemy's arm, then re-aimed to take a better shot.
The BLU Spy shrieked and used his still functioning hand to drive a modified hidden blade into the exposed patch of black sock on the RED's right leg.
Spy growled and kicked away the blue cuffed weapon. The kick came too late, however, as the damage had already been done. After a moment, he felt his heart rate slow.
"What did you do to me?" He whispered as glared at the BLU Spy.
The BLU cackled through a whimper caused by shifting over his arm, "You'll seen soon enough."
Spy stumbled back and his fingers involuntarily dropped his revolver as his blood turned to lead in his veins. Spy felt his body shake violently, then stop. After a while, his legs gave out and he slumped into a still heap. Every shortening breath he drew felt like fire being drawn into his body. He wanted to let out some form of scream to ease the pain, but he couldn't speak or move. All he could do was listen to the cackle of his opponent until the world, and all its sounds and smells, went black.
BLU Base; Sawmill
Day 3
Spy paced the floor of the resupply room. Something was wrong. All day, he hadn't caught the slightest glimpse of the RED Spy. Not when he'd stolen the RED intelligence, not when he'd sapped the RED sentries, and not even when he stabbed the RED Heavy, Medic and Soldier in rapid succession. Not one of those instances had caused the enemy spy to appear. Was he trying to lull him into a sense of false security only to viscously take it away at the last second? Or was he trying to play to his ingrained paranoia and fool him with a bit of psychological torture before delivering a series of quick kills.
Spy bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He couldn't stand not knowing the RED's plan. He was a spy, he was supposed to know his enemies and their plans, yet, here he was, pacing like a madman as he tried to decipher the situation.
"Eh, is something wrong, spook?"
Spy visibly jumped at the sound of Sniper's voice.
Sniper chuckled, "Relax, it's just me."
"I don't appreciate being snuck up on," Spy snapped, "That's my job."
"Whatever you say, Spy."
Spy watched as Sniper stride toward the battlefield, "Wait, Sniper."
Sniper stopped and looked back at Spy, "What?"
"Would you happened to have encountered the RED Spy today?"
Sniper shook his head, "Not at all. He usually gets in a couple backstabs by now."
Spy nodded slowly, "Indeed."
He pushed his way past Sniper so he could get out onto the battlefield.
"The least you could do is say thank you!" Sniper called.
Spy stuck his arm out behind himself and stuck his middle finger high into the air. He snickered lightly as he felt the marksman's glare on his back. For as much as he disliked Sniper, he knew the quiet Swede's report was accurate, which meant it was time to investigate. If Sniper wasn't getting stabbed, then something was going on with the RED Spy that went beyond a simple trick for his BLU counterpart.
Spy picked his way across the battlefield and into the RED base. Whatever his enemy was planning, it was something big. Nothing else would have caused him to take a day off work, except-
Spy froze as he passed by the RED infirmary. There, lying on a cot shoved up against the wall was the RED Spy.
Fear started to collect at the pit of Spy's stomach as he approached the RED. Something had gone horribly wrong. The RED Spy lay completely still, and not even his chest moved up and down with breath. Spy inched closer. Perhaps his eyes were tricking him. There was no way the RED Spy was not breathing. Slowly, Spy pressed to fingers to other man's neck and waited.
After a few moments, he pulled away. There was no pulse.
Spy backed away with shaking hands. Françoir couldn't actually be dead. Sure, Spy had meant to kill the RED, but not permanently. It was supposed to be a simple warning, nothing more. Now, as realization hit him, he felt sick and dizzy.
Trembling, he sank into a plastic chair beside the cot.
Sicily, Italy, 1942
Philippe waited around impatiently for Aldo to return. This was it, his chance to prove himself. If he could rough this man up enough for him to give up a few secrets, then Serafino would finally move him up a bit in terms of respect, and maybe even in rank.
Philippe turned sharply as he heard the door open behind him.
"Here we are Philippe," Aldo said as he tossed a man on the concrete floor, "We caught this scum snooping about one of the safe houses. Find out who he is and what he knows. And remember, if he's an intelligence agent of any sort, leave him for me."
Philippe nodded, "I'll get the job done."
"Let's hope so," Aldo said as he closed and locked the door.
Philippe looked down at the man and kicked his side.
"Get up," he snarled.
The man shifted himself up into his knees and stood quickly, despite having his hands zip tied behind his back.
Philippe frowned. The man was older and taller than he'd expected.
He glared at the man, "I meant on your knees, not standing."
He complied and dropped to his knees, all the while carefully studying Philippe.
"What's your name?"
The man gave a slight smile, "John Smith."
Philippe kicked the man's chest, "No, your real name."
"John Doe."
Philippe grunted in frustration and stamped his foot down on the man's thigh, "I want your real name now!"
The man simply chuckled, "You're not very well suited for this, are you?"
Philippe crossed his arms, "What do you mean, filth?"
"I mean, you're not the type to beat a man into submission. You're someone who prefers a more tactful approach. In fact, if I didn't know better, I might even tag you as the assassin type."
Philippe raised an eyebrow. Assassin, he liked the sound of that title. It was far better than picciotti.
"Elaborate."
The man arched his thin eyebrows to adjust to the smile forming on his face, "Everyone has their own form of intimidation. This setting clearly does not play to your form. As an assassin, however, you should be able to intimidate people with mere skill and a blade. Does that sound like something you'd be interested in?"
"Yes, I would, but you'd have to teach me how."
The man seemed startled by the sudden proposition, but only for a brief moment before his face returned to a neutral expression, "Really? And what makes you say I myself am an assassin?"
Philippe smiled slyly, "Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd tag you as the assassin type."
The man stood with a sigh, "You're learning."
He presented his tied hands to Philippe, "Now, if you would be so kind as to remove these, I can give you a proper assassin's lesson."
Philippe nodded and drew a pair of wire cutters from the pocket of his jacket. Carefully, he positioned them over the plastic tie binding the man's wrists. With minimal effort, he cut the tie and stood back with an eager grin on his face.
He would never stop chastising himself for being so ignorant.
The moment the man's hands were free, he spun around, grabbed Philippe's arm and twisted it behind his back. Philippe muffled a cry of pain as the man shoved him against the wall.
"Do you have a name, boy?" He asked as a whisper in Philippe's ear.
"P-Philippe Picaro," He sputtered through shortening breaths.
Without another word, the man dropped him and disappeared out the room's back door. Meanwhile, Philippe lay flat on his back, gasping for air as he tried his best not to throw up from the mix of shame and failure mounting in his stomach.
June, 1955
Philippe laid his head down on his desk. Exactly two customers had entered the small office building that day, which meant he had an awful lot of free time. Enough time to finish paperwork, make all his superiors coffee and fold a large number of paper scraps into a flock of colorful birds. Having run out of both paper and superiors in need of coffee, the receptionist had simply taken to dozing on the once sparkling front desk.
"Hello, I'm looking for a young man of about your build with bright red hair and emerald eyes."
Philippe jumped so hard he knocked two of the three phones off his desk. Heart hammering, he turned to face the voice.
Standing before him was a tall man in a crisp navy blue pinstripe suit and an identically colored balaclava to match.
Philippe's mind blanked, and all he could think to say was, "Would you mind holding? I have a call on the other line."
A slight smile broke the neutral expression from the man's face, "Would I happen to be speaking with Philippe Picaro?"
Philippe scrambled to pick up the dropped phones while keeping his eyes on the man, "Yes, I am. What can I do for you?"
"I've come to make good on an offer I made quite some time ago."
Philippe's brow furrowed as he tried to place where he'd first met the man, "Eh, I'm not quite sure what you're talking about Signore..."
The man gave a subtle nod, "Monsieur Dufort."
"Dufort, yes. Eh, what is this, 'offer' you mentioned?"
"I'm not sure if you recall a meeting thirteen years ago in which you attempted to interrogate me, and well, let's just say it didn't go very well for you."
Philippe's eyes widened, "Wait, that was you? You know that encounter left me with this dull desk job and a complete stagnation in my rank."
Monsieur Dufort simply shrugged, "That's of no importance now. The real question is whether or not you'd like to learn the skills of a true killer."
"You mean you're actually offering to teach me?"
Monsieur Dufort nodded.
Philippe smiled broadly. The opportunity was exactly what he needed to get back on his feet in the criminal world. If he could just master the skills of an assassin, then he would certainly be moved back up in his family's ranks and perhaps even challenge Serafino. Yet, in the back of his mind, he had one burning question that prevented him from immediately jumping on the offer, "Why?"
"To put it simply, as I take on larger tasks, I find myself more in need of an accomplice. Something about you makes me believe you'll fit the positon perfectly. That is, if you're up to the task."
Philippe shot out of his chair and leaned forward on his desk, "Yes, anything to get me out of this desk job. Please, I want to be out in the field, slitting throats, not stuck here sorting paperwork."
Monsieur Dufort put up a hand and gestured for Philippe to relax, "We'll get to that, eventually. First, we'll meet tonight to discuss several crucial matters before we get to killing anyone. I'll contact you beforehand on the location and time of the meeting. Until then, have a good day."
RED Base Infirmary; Sawmill
Spy was reminiscing quietly in his plastic chair when he was violently wrenched back to reality by a loud gasp. He looked around frantically before his eyes settled on the RED Spy, who was sitting straight up and breathing heavily.
Spy bolted to his feet and came to the other spy's side.
Just as he got there, the RED collapsed onto the bed and back into motionlessness.
Spy rocked back on his heels in relief. He was alive. Somehow, miraculously, the RED Spy was alive. Clearly he was fighting for a thin thread of life, but that thread was there and that was what really mattered. Spy hadn't been responsible for his RED counterpart's death.
"We have taken the enemy intelligence."
Spy flinched at the sound of the Administrator's voice resonating off the walls of the infirmary. He knew it was time to disappear and return to the battlefield he'd been away from for far too long. At least, though, he could leave with the reassurance that his opposition would soon return so he could complete his contract.
Well, that wasn't too bad (maybe). Anyway, up next, "Sicily, 1955, Christmas Eve"
