Ludmila was crying again.
Well, it wasn't actually her. She was dead. Had been for a long time. But the way that howl carried through the stormy night, the way it pierced everything—it reminded the Heavy of her, the sweet little Slavic girl with twin braids. Her pale face. Those cheekbones, more and more prominent as she wasted away. There were many dark days before his arrival in America, most of which he had left behind. Only the Medic knew some of his stories, and in turn, it was the Heavy who knew the German's deepest secrets. Even then, he'd only mentioned her in passing.
The Heavy rebuked the howl. "Quiet!"
The mewling disappeared in the thick rain.
The Heavy found himself in a barn, sitting in a molding hayloft. It was cold and wet, but it was better than being in the storm. He had been waiting for a time when the rain was slow so he could trek to the manor. The weather only got worse. That crying, too. She must be getting closer. It. Whatever that was.
He squinted his eyes. The lightning did little to light the path to the manor. Blue light flashed off water and mud, the peaks and troughs illuminated with an eerie glow. Skeletal trees and brambles jutted upwards at odd angles like spears. He thought he saw something resting in one of the bushes for a moment, something with bristling fur, but the illusion passed. The Heavy scowled, a familiar feeling creeping through his cheeks. He almost never feared his enemies. It was the anticipation that would kill him first.
Bang!
A new noise. The Heavy surveyed the stormy night again, trying to find where the sound came from. A small shadow bolted across the shining mud. It slipped once, stumbling on the slick surface. The shadow became clearer as it approached the Heavy's sanctuary. Petite. Feminine. Miss Pauling. Quickly following her was a clot of unusual shadows, all shifting and squirming in an ungainly way as it sought to swallow her up. As the blot broke ranks, he could see tattered uniforms and rotting limbs. The hair on his arms went on point.
The Heavy bellowed at Miss Pauling. "This way!"
If his call hadn't gotten Miss Pauling's attention, his next move did. It was to his joy that the Administrator had left him with his greatest partner. As the barrel spun up, the minigun hummed with a sound as lovely and unique as the melody from any songstress. It rumbled and purred at his touch. Rounds flew from the minigun's lips, the bullets carving a white-hot line in the dark storm. Fetid organs and thick blood burst from the hoard, the explosions of bullets striking flesh like scarlet stars.
Sasha was beautiful. She made such wonderful art.
It wasn't hard for Miss Pauling to find the roaring, elated Russian. She ducked into the barn where he stood, quick to climb up into the hayloft. Some may have found his enthusiasm a little off-putting, but it was hard not to crack a smile with the way he bellowed Slavic songs as he mowed the zombie hoard down. She helped him clean off the last of the zombies, popping the heads off stragglers. For as numerous as they were, the zombies went down easily.
The Heavy sat Sasha down gently. He waited for Miss Pauling to withdraw her revolver before wrapping her in a huge bear-hug. "Little woman is okay!"
Perhaps Miss Pauling would have hugged him back if she had any feeling in her arms. Or could have wrapped her arms around him. Or was on the ground. She waited for him to place her back down before speaking. "Yes. Well. Thanks to you, of course."
"Nothing you could not have handled, if you had Sasha as your weapon." He gave the minigun a loving pat. "Tell me—Have you seen others?"
Miss Pauling shook her head. "Before I was chased out here, I killed another…well, some kind of monster." She produced the key card she procured from the patchwork person. "I found this sewn into its skin."
The Heavy narrowed his eyes. "Is unprofessional."
"I suppose one of those creatures might have another one," Miss Pauling said.
"Ah. Then, we will search them." The Heavy frowned. "Oh. What if Sasha shot card?"
Miss Pauling grimaced. She hadn't thought of that. "Let's hope we're lucky, then."
The duo climbed down the ladder. Sorting through the zombie corpses was a mess. It was bad enough that the Heavy had reduced them to a consistency as thick as beef stew. The rain and the mud did little to help the situation. Dark thoughts cooked in Miss Pauling's brain. What the hell good was this doing her? Why did the Administrator think that sorting through guts was going to help her in any way?
The Heavy kept a grim face as he sorted through the zombie pile. He had a pretty slick system in place. After searching one body chunk for any card-like objects, he would throw it to an ever-growing rejection heap. Miss Pauling wondered how he managed to do it. She was barely keeping her lunch down. Maybe having his teammates and foes constantly reduced to giblets was numbing him. Being hit in the face with spleens on a routine basis tends to change one's opinion about the human body. Perhaps hanging around that Medic had morphed him. She'd watched the Russian keep awake during his own open-heart surgery. If anything was bothering him, it was the mud and the rain. That was eating away at her, too. She shivered, not entirely sure if it was out of revulsion or coldness.
"Da!" The Heavy dug his hands into the uniform shirt of one cavalryman. He pulled out a keycard, mostly in one piece. The edge had been nicked by one of Sasha's bullets, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. He wiped the soldier's blood off of it and passed it to Miss Pauling. She smiled. Two down. Perhaps this wasn't going to take as long as she thought.
Then she heard that awful cry.
Given the circumstances, the Demoman may have taken the most logical step out of the entire team. He hit the booze hard.
He'd come to in the cellar with nothing more than a shield and a note. Well, that, and centuries-old wine stored in huge barrels flanking him. Maybe it was a little hazardous to drink, but he didn't care. It was alcohol. He was alone. He needed some of that sweet, sweet liquid courage.
The Administrator's note said that the keycard-protected generator for the Material Emancipation Grill was down here. Damned if he knew what she was talking about. All he saw was dozens of rows of barrels. The Manns kept a plentiful stock. He wondered if he could sweet-talk the Administrator into taking some of the barrels with him when they left.
If they left.
In his drunkenness, the Demoman began to babble to himself. "Smarmy misses thinks she can get away with this. I won't stand it. I won't." He stumbled into a wall, muttering and cursing as he wandered the cellar without purpose. "I am only paid to handle killin' other humans. That's it. Didn't sign up for no stinkin' All Hallow's Eve witchy-craft exercise-ism. Big bossy lassie and her big bossy—"
"Heads."
The Demoman's head jerked up. "What's that?"
The cellar voice answered him back. "Heads. Heads."
Tavish brushed his hand across his nose. Now there were other people down here. Good. He didn't want to be alone, anyway. He wobbled towards where he heard the voice coming from. This cellar wasn't so big. It had to be easy to find another human down here, even if he couldn't find that key-card system.
"Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads." The voice was starting to chant. It kept a consistent tempo, doubling the speed of its words from quarters to eighths. "Headsheads. Headsheads. Headsheads. Headsheads."
"Goddamnit, you are 'n annoyin' person beastie type thing." The Demoman turned around a shelf, staring at a pile of rubble. It was mostly broken brick-a-brack. Half a table, a couple of chairs, an empty wine barrel. The entire mess was coated with spider webs. The tiny creatures scuttled off in all directions. Lodged in the middle of that was a long, wooden pole with a leather grip. It was a strange mess, considering how clean the rest of the manor appeared to be.
The voice sounded like it was coming from the pile. It was going in sixteenths now. "Headsheadsheadsheads. Headsheadsheadsheads. Headsheadsheadsheads. Headsheadsheadsheads."
That pole seemed out of place. The Demoman placed a hand on it. The wooden handle trembled, shaking like a frightened mouse. Tavish smiled, giving the pole a good tug. It was pretty well lodged in the rubble. He placed a foot against some of the garbage, pulling once again. There was a creaking sound, and then scratching as the pole gave way. All the while, the chanting increased in speed, going from thirty-secondths to sixty-fourths. He could barely recognize the words, but he knew what the voice was saying.
With one last yank, the pole dislodged from the rubble. The Demoman stumbled backwards, knocking over a priceless wine barrel. After he collected his wits, he gave the pole a look. His eyes widened. This wasn't just a talking stick. Attached to the front of the object was a heavy axe head. The whole of the head was half the size of the pole, the blade tip chipped and dull. The back of it had a chunk of it missing. The damage looked like a crooked smile. This axe was wicked. Pure evil.
"What the hell?" The Demoman asked.
The axe answered. "HEADS!"
Tavish dropped the axe and ran. He'd had enough booze for a while.
Well, this was awkward.
Neither the vampire woman nor the Spy knew what to do next. She had killed him two times already. Drained him dry twice. Now she was as sick as a gluttonous, thieving kid in a candy store. Considering the volume of blood she must have drained, the Spy was surprised she wasn't regurgitating. Did vampires regurgitate? There was a thought the Spy had never had.
He did what any gentleman would have done in his situation, sitting in a bed with a strange, sick vampire woman. He offered her a cigarette. Surprisingly enough, she took it.
"Listen, mon mort-vivant. I believe we can reach a deal." The Spy lit the end of her cigarette before starting one of his own. "Let's not waste time, no? I've got a life to live, and so do you. Relatively speaking."
The vampire woman nodded but made no sound. She looked queasy. The Spy shifted slightly, just enough to get out of the way of any potential projectile vomit. No reason to soil this suit any more than it already was.
The Spy continued his suggestion. "I say we call a truce. All I need from you is a card. A key card, to be precise. You have one, do you not?"
Again, more nodding. The vampire reached into her bosom, withdrawing the item in question from deep within her dress. Goodness. The Spy had seen the same trick done with other women as ample as her, but it was the first time he'd seen an undead woman do it. He should have expected that.
"Zhat is it. Now, if I may." The Spy reached for the card, but the vampire balked. He lifted an eyebrow. "Well? Why the hesitation?"
He was surprised again when the quiet vampire began speaking in a Southern accent thicker than the Engineer's. "That'd be cheaten', wouldn't it?"
"It is only cheating if it is a game. Zhis is an exercise. Come, now." He tried plucking the card from the vampire's hands, but she retracted again. The Spy gave a sigh. This was taking more work than just fighting her.
"Well, you'll have to pardon me, but I can't just let you take it from me, darlin'. That'd be voidin' the terms of my employment," the vampire said.
The Spy shook his head. Employment? Where in the hell did one hire vampire assassins? The Administrator had her connections to a myriad of strange corporations, but this was beyond the realms of reality. He took an angry puff from his cigarette. "Then what do you intend to do? Kill me? It's quite clear that you cannot."
The vampire scrunched her eyebrows at him. "How d'ya keep comin' back, anyways? Doesn't seem fair to me. All ya have to do is kill me once! That's the only life I've got!"
"Precisely, mon mort-vivant! Zhink for a moment." The Spy smiled, finally getting some leverage in his argument. "You are a fair mademoiselle. You have charming features. Surely, you can find better work zhan killing humans. At least, I can zhink of one job you would be better suited for."
The vampire blushed, probably only because she had a generous amount of the Spy's blood running through her. "Oh? What career d'ya think I'd be better for?"
The Spy grinned from ear to ear. The deal was almost sealed. He leaned over to her ear, whispering dark thoughts into her brain. She giggled from time to time, amused with each and every one. He was intrigued, too. To think he could be this close to a vampire and not be sucked lifeless. If he hadn't had someone else on his mind, he might have given her a quick go. It wasn't every day one had the opportunity to be with a vampire. Still, honor dictated that he would have to let her be. C'est la vie.
"And just where d'ya think I'd be able to do all of those things?" the vampire woman asked.
"I will give you one place to start." The Spy clasped the hand of the vampire, sliding the key card from her palm to his. "Zhere is a charming little home in Chicago. I visited it, but just once. Zhirteen-forty North State Parkway. You will know when you have arrived. Zhe front lawn will be full of bunnies."
The vampire woman smiled. "Thanks, darlin'. I needed a new life."
The Spy took another drag, content with his work. "Don't we all?"
She gave him one last smirk before she disappeared in a misty burst. A tiny bat appeared out of the smoke. He got off the bed, opening the bedroom window for the vampire woman. She squeaked once, then took off at mach speeds into the night. He found himself smiling, just a touch envious. Too bad that respawn generator took care of any vampirification he might have undergone. Flying seemed much more efficient than riding around in trains and decrepit vans.
He gave the key card an amused twirl. That wasn't so hard.
Author's Note
I was stagnated on this for quite some time. I knew I wanted to discuss the Heavy and the Demoman, but I didn't know what to do with the third part. I think I resolved that well. Pro-tip: don't be searching for Thirteen-forty North State Parkway on a public computer.
Ludmila was the name of a scrapped weapon for the Heavy. So, that's where that came from, if you did not know.
That's all I've got. Let me know what's on your mind and whether or not it is Georgia.