Though this chapter is not as cringey, graphic, etc as I was originally anticipating, it's still a bit more 'R violence' than I usually include. If you are highly squeamish, I recommend moving on to the next chapter.
RED Base; Sawmill
Day 5
Spy climbed up onto a small stack of crates and wedged himself in the shadow between the topmost crate and the roof of the shed. Despite the impending loss, Spy had done far better in battle than he'd expected.
When he'd woken up on the floor for the second time that week, he'd been sure he wouldn't be able to get his weakened body to do much more than stand. To his surprise, though, a bit of food and a bottle of water were all he'd needed to get back to fighting condition. In fact, he'd done shockingly well the whole day. Not only had he managed to destroy the enemy engineer's sentry nest on several occasions, but he'd also managed to sneak in a good dozen or so backstabs on the BLU Spy as a bit of professional revenge for the previous day.
"You've failed!" The Administrator's voice screeched over the RED communicators.
Spy sighed as he felt a pulse of energy emit from the communicator that disabled everything but his knife for the humiliation round. As if loosing wasn't humiliating enough, the Administrator found it in her heart to include an extra 15 minutes after the match ended to allow the winning team to do whatever they pleased to the essentially disarmed losers. Spy usually spent that time holed up in a hiding spot so not to give the enemy the satisfaction of killing him.
On most days, he'd use the time to review the mistakes he'd made on the battlefield. Today, however, he decided to use the time to close his eyes as his energy faded and exhaustion started to take hold.
"Enjoying your nap?"
Spy woke with a start at the words hissed into his ear.
In a cloud of smoke, the BLU Spy materialized atop the crates, right beside the RED.
The BLU smiled, "Hello Françoir. Did you sleep well?"
The RED Spy grabbed the edge of the crate and threw himself off the ledge. He hit the ground and rolled, then reached for his knife only to find the pocket empty.
"Looking for this?" The BLU Spy asked as he dangled a carved dagger in his limp hand. Lazily, he slid off the crate and pocketed the dagger.
"What? You're not going to run?"
The RED Spy stood straight and stared down his counterpart. In his mind's eye, he imagined the only result of running as a bullet to the back of the head.
The BLU made sure to keep adequate distance between himself and his adversary, "Go ahead, run."
Spy weighed his options. He could jump off the edge of the shed platform and disappear in the water. He could also bolt back toward the RED base and risk being killed by another member of BLU. Then again, he figured he'd stand a decent chance in a fist fight against the BLU, assuming he kept it clean, which was highly unlikely.
The BLU Spy sneered, "What's the matter /Monsieur Dufort/? Spy got your tongue?"
He bowed his head and covered his mouth to attempt still his outburst of laughter.
The RED Spy took the opportunity to turn and sprint toward the RED base. He barely made it 10 meters before the BLU Spy grabbed his waist and tackled him.
With astonishing speed, the BLU Spy pinned the RED and sat on his torso. Then, he pulled two identical knives from his coat and stabbed them between the ulna and radius of each of the RED's arms.
Spy gasped and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming as the knives cut through his forearms and buried themselves in the ground.
His captor closed a hand around his throat, "My, what an interesting situation we're in."
Spy stared up into the eyes of his apprentice as his mind worked to calm his racing heart and breath.
The BLU's eyes traced off into the distance with an air of boredom, "Keeping with the silent treatment, are you? Typical. I suppose it's better than hearing you whine. Though, pleas for mercy are always appreciated."
"Oh please."
A sideways smile broke the indifference from the BLU Spy's face, "Ah, you're not mute," he flicked open his butterfly knife, "you honestly had me worried."
Spy repressed the urge to divert his eyes from his captor.
The BLU unpinned his prey's right arm and held its useless fingers in his palm. Delicately, he took the tip of the black glove on the middle finger and tugged. He did the same to the other fingers until he'd separated glove from hand. He turned the hand over to get a good look at the scars making an artwork of lines and pinpricks across pale skin. With the utmost care, he returned the hand to the ground. Using the same level of care, he did the same to the other hand before returning the knives to their pinning positions.
The captor stroked his prey's exposed skin.
"Philippe..." the prey said warily.
"Hmm?"
"If you're going to kill me, please make quick work of it. You're wasting my time"
Philippe flicked his butterfly knife between his fingers, "Kill you? That would be merciful. Why should I show you mercy," he wrenched his prey's right arm free of its knife, "when you failed to do so for my mother?"
"Philippe, we discussed this, I had nothing to do with your mother's assassination."
Philippe brought the tip of his knife just beneath the nail of the hand's index finger, "Yes, and I assume you also had nothing to do with the Guild in France either."
Beneath Philippe's hold, the assassin tensed.
"What, nothing to say?"
In one swift motion, Philippe moved the knife down and peeled away nail from skin.
Françoir barely stifled a scream as his back arched involuntarily to the pain that shot from his finger.
Philippe placed the tip of the knife beneath the next nail, "Let's play a game," he dug the knife beneath the nail and pried it from its bed, "every time you lie to me, I'll punish you."
Meticulously, he ripped off the remaining nails and tossed the hand aside.
Françoir remained as still as possible as Philippe picked up his left hand. To keep calm, he took a series of short breaths through his nose. He'd been through this kind of pain before, he could survive it a second time.
Philippe wiped the blood from his hands onto his pants, "Next question. In what city did you grow up in?"
Françoir searched his memory for the city he'd initially told Philippe, "Paris, France."
"Hmm…convincing, but ultimately wrong."
Philippe took his knife and pulled off Françoir's remaining five finger nails, a hint of a smile forming on his face as he watched blood cling to the nail before breaking off and flowing across his victim's skin.
"How old were you when we first met?"
Françoir's mind raced. Somehow, Philippe had got hold of his personal information, or, at the very least, he was simply going to dish out another punishment no matter what his response was.
"Thirty-three."
Philippe raised an eyebrow, "My, what an interesting answer."
He shifted his hold slightly so he could cut away the sleeves from his enemy's expensive jacket. Taking the left arm in his hands, he set aside his knife and brought out a small battery with two disconnected wires sticking from it. He pulled the left arm up close to his chest. Gingerly, he touched the tips of his fingers to a raised gray scar whose epicenter lay just below the crook of the arm. Philippe took the wire prongs from the battery. Without taking his eyes from his victim's face, he sunk the sharp wire tips into the scar's epicenter. All the while, he felt tension building in Françoir's body as Philippe's finger rested on the switch to allow electricity to flow through the wires.
For the briefest of moments, Philippe thought he saw a flicker of terror cross the Frenchman's face only to vanish beneath a steely façade.
He flipped the switch.
Though the voltage of the battery wasn't much, it sent Françoir instantly struggling to escape Philippe's hold. Every inch of his body screamed in pain. In his mind, memories flashed by like strikes of lightning. Fleeting glimpses of men in white coats with red stains on their arms, children's eyes as they looked for solace amongst doomed strangers, and a young pilot asking for death without a hint of doubt in his being.
Unaware of the memories he dredged up, Philippe laughed harder than he had in years at the pathetic whine coming from his victim's throat. Something about the sound was just so pitiful, he couldn't help but cackle like a mad man.
Once he finally calmed down, he flicked the switch off and pulled the wires from flesh, causing two trails of blood to trail down opposite sides of the arm. Françoir's whine ceased, but his skin continued to tremble as if the metal had never left his being.
Philippe looked down at his victim. He looked so pathetic and broken. Nothing like the calculated serpent of a man he'd once known. In his heart, he felt something he'd never expected to feel from this; exhilaration. Just the thought of his superiority, just to know he was the new master, made his heart quicken and his blood rush. It was a drug, and he was an addict. He craved the feeling more and more the longer he looked at Françoir. For himself, for his family, for his mother, he would have more, and there was nothing in existence with the power to stop him.
Returning the knife to his hold, Philippe tore shirt, vest and suit jacket from Françoir. From the heavens, rain suddenly came down in torrents that bounced off Françoir's skin, cleansing him of the blood drawn from sloppy cuts from a knife.
Philippe eagerly ran his hands along the web of scars coating Françoir's chest until he found the one he was looking for. He set the tip of the knife at the top of a long scar tracing from his victim's diaphragm to his hip. Applying just enough pressure to break the skin, he moved the knife along the cut with a hand steady enough to amaze the like of surgeons.
Once the skin was split and blossoming a fissure of crimson, Philippe slid a several capsules of salt from his jacket. He packed the capsules into the exposed flesh and waited.
Water in the blood made quick work of the thin skin of the capsules, allowing them to release their concentrated arsenal. Instantly, Philippe was met with a satisfying shriek and the sound of crackling salt as it tore the water mercilessly from the helpless body.
Philippe leaned his body over Françoir's so he was pressed firmly to the other man's frame. He wouldn't have much time for the last bit, seeing as Françoir was likely to live much longer with the salt eating him from the inside out. Eagerly, he dug his hands beneath the edge of Françoir's mask as his head thrashed wildly from side to side.
Rather abruptly, Philippe was yanked by the back of his collar and launched back into the side of the RED shed.
For several moments, he scrambled about on the wood until he was able to sit up properly. Standing before him was his team's engineer.
The flash from a bolt of lightning cast haunting shadows across the Texan's face, "What the hell do you think you're doin?"
Philippe jumped to his feet, focusing only on the rage coursing through him, "Something I should have done a long time ago."
He charged the engineer, planning to tear into his soft neck with his nails.
From his belt, Engineer drew a wrench and slammed it into his teammate's side. In response, Spy's body appeared to ragdoll and he collapsed into a heap.
Panting, Engineer turned to the wheezing Spy, "That," he pointed to the dying RED, "is not what we do to people, even the enemy."
He swung his wrench like and axe and bashed in the RED's skull.
Spy glared at Engineer, "How dare you! That was my kill."
"I don't care if that was your kill," Engineer roared, "You are not allowed to treat people like that. Not now, not ever, and if I catch you doin somethin like that again, I'll make sure your respawn files disappear. Understand?"
Spy brushed off the edges of his suit, "Indeed."
Engineer returned his wrench to his belt, "Good. Now head on back to base, humiliation's been over for a good ten minutes now."
Spy gave one last glance to the disappearing RED body before slowly walking back to the BLU base.
Just out of curiosity, who do you all believe as to the true account of what happened to Benigna? (I haven't forgotten you, someone. The information you seek can be found on my profile)
