When faced with intruders, the Spy knew the safest place for him in any home. The kitchen, mais oui. He would have a variety of knives available for his use, in various shapes and sizes. He was fond of steak knives, when he didn't have his balisong at hand. It would have been more useful to have a set of sappers for that robot, though. Perhaps duct tape for the Scout's whiny mouth.
"Ouch! Geez, would ya let go? Think I'm bruisin'." Frankly, the Scout could outrun the Spy. Since he had no other plan than to run like hell, it didn't hurt to have the Spy drag him around to some predetermined destination. Well, outside of the physical pain, of course.
"Silence, boy." The Spy threw the Scout into the kitchen, then pushed the Pyro in as well. He waited for a moment, watching for their pursuer. Odd. He could hear it, but it was not coming this way. Maybe they had given it the slip. Still, it would be better to hide out for a few moments.
The Spy paced around the kitchen. He was looking for anything to take the edge off. A cigarette. Alcohol. A steak knife. Anything. He was lucky enough to discover a knife. The Pyro had found a box of matches, but no cigarettes. No alcohol, either. The Spy scowled, trying to think of their next plan. Lord knew that the Scout was no master strategist. If a problem couldn't be solved by running fast or sloppy aim, then it was impossible. If the Pyro had an idea outside of burning things, he couldn't articulate it. So, that left everything to the Spy.
He was drawing blanks.
The Spy pressed two fingers to his temple. "Alright. What do we need to do next?"
"I don't even know what we're supposed to do right now." The Scout was getting twitchy. He didn't like being forced to stay in place and hide like some French chickens he knew.
The Pyro was no help, either. He was busy trying to force the pantry open. "Ai miffed fuffa. Ai'm baken rumprin do ea."
The Spy rolled his eyes. "Gentlemen—oh, who am I kidding? Boys, listen up. We are in trouble. As far as I can tell, we are zhe only productive members of our group tonight. You have a card. I have a card. Zhe others have nothing."
The Scout shrugged. "Don't sweat it, Suit. Might as well take a break while we're here."
The right side of the Spy's face twitched. "Lazy fools."
"Look, Frenchie. I don't know what you had to do, but me and my buddy here? We had to kill, like, a dozen large spiders. Like, huge." The Scout pantomimed his story like the greatest of fishermen. "Dhey probably could have eaten dhe Heavy and gone out for Chinese."
A derisive huff escaped the Spy's nose. "Please. I had to deal with a vampire. A creature of cunning and stealth. I had to use my wits first and my weapons second. You wouldn't even know what to do if such a stunning, charming ghoul approached you."
"Yeah, I would. I'd bash them in dhe face. Can't suck my blood if dhey don't have teeth." The Scout glanced towards the Pyro. "How's it going?"
The Pyro finally chopped through the door. "Godd id!" He stepped into the pantry, continuing to mumble as he went. "Mam, id reefhs rike a dud guh an hurr."
Both the Spy and the Scout picked their spat back up, ignoring whatever mumbling was coming from the pantry. The Scout was the first to strike back. "So, did ya get turned? Gotta suck blood now?"
"Not in the slightest. How about you?" A devilish grin crossed the Spy's face. "Are you going to start spinning a web? Perhaps you will actually make your bed for once. You know how your lack of cleanliness disappoints your mother."
"Ro, krad! Ris rings roobing!" The Pyro stated. His exclamation went unnoted by both parties, since it did little to further their feud.
The Scout never skipped a beat. "And here we are, talking about my mom again. Do ya ever stop thinking about her, ya creepy pervo?"
"Of course not! Why would I? We are paramours. Perhaps, you will be lucky enough to find a man who cares about you in the same way I care for your mozher." The Spy grinned from ear to ear, his words slithering and crafty.
That got the Scout hopping. "What are ya implying, ya French frog?"
The Spy let the term slide, driving his insults home. "I am saying zhat you are, as you Americans would say, a friend of Doro—"
"—Ri! Murlp ri!"
That wasn't how the Spy was intending to finish that sentence.
He turned to the pantry. Before he could correct the Pyro, his jaw hit the floor. The Scout did the same, his expression almost identical to the Spy's. The kitchen had not been safe, after all. The thing that slid out of the pantry was like half-settled gelatin, liver colored and thick. There were discolored patches to it, blue lines that wrapped around the ooze like stretch marks. It was awful in the same way that green Jell-O with mandarin oranges is both ugly and disgusting. Instead of little globby fruit pieces, the slime had random junk floating around in it. Plates. Utensils. The Pyro. A real appetite killer.
Even faced with the fast-approaching maneater that was due to engulf them both in seconds, the Scout couldn't help but stop to think of dozens of movie dates and that trailer's infamous warning about running and not walking.
Well, the Soldier could have taken that last fight one of many ways.
His battle against the robot wasn't exactly a victory. He wasn't about to call it a failure, though. His frying pan had left a pretty good dent in the robot's chest cavity. It just so happened that the robot had made a few dozen more dents in the Soldier's body. Well, not so much dents. More like holes. But, he was able to confirm that the manor's respawn generator was working. Good enough!
The storm wasn't letting up. The Soldier readjusted his helmet, sliding it to its default position. Now was the time to make his next plan. That robot probably wasn't too far away. He could ambush it a couple dozen more times. No, that wasn't very efficient. He'd have to find a rocket launcher. A shotgun. Something. He snapped his spine in a ninety-degree angle, sitting upright instantly. Well, while he was out here, he could raid the Medic and Sniper's vans. One of them had to have something with a little more punch. And range! Range would be good. An umbrella wouldn't hurt, either.
"What are you doing out here?"
Good gravy! The Soldier jumped to his feet. He spun on his ankle, brandishing his well-dented frying pan and preparing a terrifying battle cry. He dropped his act as soon as he saw who it was. Just the Commie man-bear. "I could be asking you the same question, Ruskie."
The Heavy pointed over his shoulder. "Woke up in barn. Killed moving dead men and drekavac."
"Speak English, Sputnik," the Soldier said.
"Hmm…werewolf. Da, that is it." The Heavy rested his right arm on the Medic's Kombi. "And yourself, little man?"
The Soldier marched around the Russian, building up his story. "I came to in the billiard room and converted it for my purposes. After enlisting Texas Toast, both he and I investigated the second floor. We came across Crouton, Smokey Joe, and the boy. Upon our reunion, Miss Pauling ran to me for protection. She was being pursued by a robot. I fought it while our teammates made it to safety."
The Heavy lifted one eyebrow. "Did you kill it?"
"Yes! Well, no. But I hurt it a lot. A little. A smidge." The Soldier scowled. He continued on, not dwelling on it for long. "Frenchie managed to steal a card. The arsonist and City Slicker managed to find one as well. How about yourself?"
The Russian produced a card. It was partially suspended on a ball chain, some blood splashed on the front. "Miss Pauling has two as well."
The Soldier frowned. Sure, it was good that they had found five cards. Half of the work was already done. The part he was disappointed with was the fact that he hadn't got to kill anything yet. At least he'd gotten the opportunity to fight a giant robot. That was something. Still, this whole haunted house event was not any fun, at least not for him.
"Have you seen Doctor?" the Russian asked.
"No. But now that you mention it, we did find a statue on the balcony that looked just like him." The Soldier scratched his stubble, wondering if he'd overlooked something. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen that camping Australian cupcake, either. Or that one-eyed, skirt-twirling Scottish son of a—"
"ARGGGGH!"
A shadow dashed across the courtyard. It crashed with a sharp thwack into the side of a nearby barn. Neither the Soldier nor the Heavy jumped at the sound. Just the Demoman. Not exactly one's worst nightmare. He fell backwards, clutching his skull and gibbering in slurred Gaelic. The Soldier laughed at the sight. That poor Scotchman. Never-the-less, he went to help him back onto his feet.
The Soldier smirked, propping the Demoman against the Medic's van. "Already found the booze?"
"Ya cannot make me go back!" The Demoman grabbed the Soldier by his shirt, giving him a good shake. "There be demons or ghosts or somethin' down there!"
The Russian cocked his head to the side, his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
The Scotchman bolted over to the Heavy, his one good eye darting wildly. "There I was, enjoyin' the finest wine I'd ever had. And then it started talking to me! So, I went to go look at it, and—and—it kept talking!"
Neither the Soldier nor the Heavy knew what to think about the Demoman's nonsensical sentences. The first one made sense. Everything after that had been rubbish. The Soldier asked for clarification. "What was talking?"
"The world's bloody biggest axe, mate! Possessed by Stalin or Beel-zii-bubba or Lucifius or somethin'!" The Demoman buried himself into the Heavy's shoulder, weeping incoherently. He kept babbling on, but the words were lost in the alcoholic wash surrounding the Demoman's mind. The Heavy sighed, not sure what to do. The Soldier was confused, but amused as well. He hid his laughter behind his right fist, trying to figure out a way to get the Demoman to settle down.
"Listen, Cyclops. I've got a plan." The Soldier poked the Demoman in the shoulder, getting him to snap out of his drunken slobbering. "The bear and I are going to investigate a few things. Hunt down a giant robot. Find his German streusel. Stick with us, and I'll guarantee that we'll all be fine, ghosts or no ghosts."
The Demoman cracked a smile. "Oh, yeah?"
The Soldier nodded. He talked to the drunken man like the Demoman was a toddler. "Ask my men. I seek to reward good behavior with alcohol and girls. You'd like that, wouldn't you? " He turned his attention to the Russian. "Same goes for you, Commie. Get you some vodka and babushkas."
"It would not be appealing to me." The Heavy shook his head. He knew what the American was getting at, but the difference between what he meant and what he said was about sixty years.
The Soldier cocked an eyebrow and smirked, the rebuke confusing the exchange even more. "I was just kidding about the doc before, Pinko. Didn't think you actually swung that way."
An urge to uppercut the Soldier shot through the Heavy's arms. He let it pass, marching back towards the manor. "Let us go, da? We have much work to do."
The Soldier grumbled. He hated when people ordered him around.
The distended snarl of roots and stems choked the conservatory. The mass of plants wound towards the ceiling, swallowing everything with a ravenous, feral hunger. Bright, red blossoms burst outward, like poinsettias that drank mutagen. Pots and statues were strangled with vines. Roots splayed across the ground, digging through the floor and tangling in the earth below. Lightning and rain bathed the room in a slick, glowing sheen. The architecture of man served as much purpose for this monstrous garden as an unlocked prison, crumbling and soaked in the barrage of nature.
They should have been running for their lives. That dreadful robot was closing in on them, its body and weapons gouging hunks of plaster out of walls as it forced itself through small passageways. Even with impending death at their heels, the Engineer balked, his jaw dropped. Miss Pauling could hardly blame him, given the swollen monstrosity engulfing the room. They still needed to run. Even if the Engineer could be revived, she was not sure she had the same capabilities. She did not want to find out the hard way, either.
Miss Pauling pointed towards the back of the room. "Those windows."
There were panes missing from the walls, glass shattering as the plants grew through them. It might be a bit of a messy escape route, but it would have to do. She vaulted over a thick vine, weaving her way through brambles and thorns. When the Engineer did not follow her, she stopped. He'd been paying attention to something else—a blade lodged in the conservatory's door frame. That could be useful. She'd lost her cleaver to the battle with the werewolf near the barns. Her pistol was empty, too. Her optimism sank again as she realized why the Engineer was shocked by its appearance. As he pulled it from the frame, she saw the knife's serrated back and chipped blade, marked with a hole near the hilt. The Sniper's bushwacka.
"Miss Pauling?" the Engineer called. "I'd recommend comin' on ba—"
A missile plowed into the door frame inches above his head. He flinched, clasping onto his hardhat. The robot had found them. There wasn't any easy escape route. It was either through the robot or the plant.
The Engineer sighed. "Dagnabbit."
He was quick to rejoin Miss Pauling. The plants whipped around them, frenzied and panicked. Fear? They had fear? How was that possible? Each stem moved with a mind of its own. Some reeled away from the bushwacka in his hand, others reaching for the invading machine at the door. The robot was not amused with the waving flora, either. It opened fire, turrets chopping flowers into shredded petals. A thick chunk of flower landed in front of the escaping duo. They dove in opposite directions, escaping a bulb and a torrent of collected water.
Miss Pauling was pushed into a tangled set of roots by the splash. They looked like something that belonged to swamp trees, belled outward like bars of a bird cage. Sinewy stems slithered from above, wrapping into the roots and plunging deep below. The entire mass wound upwards, suspending from several bulky stems in the vicinity.
Emerging from the snarl of roots and ivy was a limp, lifeless hand.
"Mister Conagher!" the assistant shouted. "Get over here!"
She dug into the roots, pulling at the ivy wound around the hand. It was stubborn, slicked with rain and as good at holding tension as rubber. The plant smacked her as she tore it apart, red liquid seeping out. She kept tugging, digging her heels into the floor in a vain attempt to gain traction. Some of the plant had been torn from the inside, the roots scratched and some dead ivy already lying at her feet. The Sniper had tried to dig himself free, but it was quite clear that he couldn't have done so. The ivy was growing through his skin, leeching his blood. Between it and the roots, he wouldn't have had time to get free before it would drain him, killing him time and time again.
Pale skin drew paleness in her own flesh.
There was another explosion of gunfire. Glass shattered as a gargantuan plant snapped at its roots. That damn robot was still up and going. It had taking a serious beating. One of its turrets was knocked off, its remaining metal stump whirling without purpose. The second one was still alive, white fire propelling dozens of rounds across the room. The conservatory was starting to look like someone had cracked open the world's largest spinach can and dumped it all over the place. Miss Pauling hesitated, trying to find the Engineer through the mess.
She almost leapt out of her skin as the Texan dragged himself over. He'd caught a few rounds in his side. Not that the robot had been aiming for him with the large, writhing enemy in its sights. He'd merely been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It hadn't instantly killed him, but he wasn't long for the world of the living. Never-the-less, he stumbled towards Miss Pauling, crashing at her feet. She stopped her digging, placing pressure on the worst of his wounds. The Engineer shook his head. He took her hands aside, his left hand large enough to hold them both.
"I'll be fine, darlin'." The Engineer gave her a smile, blood on his lips. "Get outside. I'll be there in a minute."
An indignant nerve flared in Miss Pauling's brain. Her cool demeanor burst into flames. Yes, she saw these men die every day. She'd seen some of them die tonight. Watching the Engineer submit to his demise was the last straw. Between the Administrator's deception, the Heavy's murder, the Sniper's captivity, and every single life she had to take, some part of her snapped. When it went, she did not feel terror or anger. There was no grand bravado like the Soldier bore. What she felt was solid, stubborn, unyielding. Sheer determination.
Everyone else was flippant about their deaths, and now, so was Miss Pauling.
She yanked the bushwacka out of the Engineer's grasp. "I'll wait."
Instead of bolting for the open window, she returned to work. She pulled the ivy back, slicing cleanly through. It shrunk away from her, the act odd for a life form with no brain. She continued digging into the roots, the plant as solid as a watermelon's hide. Vascular tissue and blood splashed across her, but she didn't feel it. A fire billowed in her torso. She could do this forever.
Crunching metal and snapping plants echoed in Miss Pauling's ears. She didn't care. Let them destroy each other. Less work for her boys. She smiled, burrowing into the roots. Her boys. They belonged as much to her as to the Administrator. She pulled hunks of ivy aside, almost as thickly bound as pumpkin guts. A laugh escaped her before she could catch it, her face hot and red. How very Halloween.
Then she went cold. That laugh hurt. What was—
Oh.
That fire she'd felt in her body wasn't exactly from her enraged soul. There was a scarlet star in the lower hem of her shirt. In the front and in the back. Huh. That robot really did have terrible aim. An awful spray. No brains. Funny. She thought being shot would hurt more than that.
Miss Pauling fell forward, collapsing into her work.
Author's Note
Wrote this chapter backwards. LIKE A BOSS.
Sorry for the delay. I'm trying to get this wrapped up before Halloween, really. I've been distracted by things. You know. Map programming. Work. Hats. These things happen.
What do you think Valve will do for Halloween this year? Hope it'll be super special awesome.