As the battlefield's entrance receded, the previously docile men seemed to fill with a ferocious, savage brutality. Their bodies stiffened, fingers went vicelike on rifle grips, brows furrowed, and jaws grit. These men, these beasts, killed for a paycheck. The Spy expected no less; she was among them after all.
"CHARGE!" the Soldier hollered viciously. The other men grouped behind as the American barged off fanatically. The woman had to admire the man's incredibly evident enthusiasm.
"For guts and glory, eh, lass," Demoman commented as he brought his stride into a slow trot, the Spy at his side. "If yae watch my back, and I'll watch yers," He said, raising his weapon offensively.
She nodded back as she jogged with him. She was doubtful of his claim.
The fleeting hush of stillness surrounded them. Somehow, blood hadn't been spilled already, what with the vigor her team had left with, but this was assuming that the BLU team was just as eager.
Then, like a falling wine glass, the desert's tranquil lull was shattered. Broken shards of silence retreated from the bedlam opera of war, the drum of explosions, the crescendo of gunfire, and a chorus of shrieks all echoed a boisterous and eternal clamor under the roasting heat of a profligate sun. Truly, this was Hell on earth.
The pair ran through building after building through the industrial maze. Demoman took the front and Spy was left to watch their tail. Both searched, almost eagerly, for any enemy presence. The Scot halted. He located a target; the BLU Heavy was about twenty feet away in an alley surrounded with adjoining buildings. He hadn't discovered them yet, as he was directed opposite of their position. With his behemoth of a weapon waving before him, the BLU was trudging down the path leading away from them.
Demoman elbowed the Spy, pointed to the nearby enemy, and motioned to her to follow him. Deciding against engaging at that moment, he led his comrade away to give the large Russian a wide berth and themselves some planning room. Pointing at a distance, he said, "That was the BLU Heavy, and I'll tell yae, try not to be at his business end. It's no bloody party," he finished his statement with a large gulp of liquor.
"You require liquid courage now?" The Spy commented.
"It's never too early for a little light drinking," Demoman said, stowing his bottle away. "Anyway, the BLU Heavy can be a real pain in the arse; it would be best if we took him out now. I'll go in from the front to get his attention, and then yae can sneak in from behind. Yer good at that, right?"
"What kind of spy would I be if I lacked such a necessary skill?"
"Yae'd be the BLU Spy," He joked as he plopped a rounded grenade into one of his launcher's chambers. "Go on then, and wait for my signal."
With that he ran headlong at the large man, but being careful to remain undetected until the proper moment. He placed himself into a crevice between two brick buildings. The Spy, with a few clicks and twists of her watch, cloaked and made her way through several of the attached buildings until the Heavy was sandwiched between her position and her co-worker's.
Seconds later, Demoman peeped out from his station and gave a nod.
Without any deliberation, he sprung out from behind his cover and fired a grenade at the enemy's feet. The BLU gave a yelp and with startling speed, just barely managed to dive out of the way to land on his expansive stomach. He spun his head around and spotted the Scotsman. In a split second, the beast of a man was on his feet again, unshaken, furious, and slinging his mini-gun around to aim down his aggressor.
Amid the discord of the skirmish, the woman normally would have crept behind her foe to thrust her knife through the man's back in an overhanded fashion, typically between the shoulder blades and ribs in order to puncture the lungs or heart. Tearing between vertebrae to sever the spinal cord was always a suitable choice as well, as it would cause paralysis, but the sheer size of the Russian proved to be a deterrent. A single jab probably wouldn't finish him, and besides, the knife wouldn't likely make it through all the fat anyway.
Bullets soared from the Heavy's mini-gun like a hoard of wasps, the barrage effectively keeping the Scot behind his only shelter. Now on the offensive, the large man was gaining more and more ground with every elephantine step.
Under the cover of several wooden storage boxes and the scuffle outside, the Spy decloaked and firmly wrapped her fingers around the ivory handle. With revolver poised, she rose from the crates in cold sober.
The snarling Russian was bearing down like a freight train. The steel monster roared angrily as it spat its copious hail. He was within feet of her comrade's position. She strode up from behind and took aim at the rear of the enormous man's head. She squeezed the trigger.
With a ringing bang, a single bullet was freed, and recoil tore through the woman's forearm with a satisfying pulse. The Spy's messenger followed its destined path, and not unlike a pumpkin, the Russian's skull burst in a gory deluge which flung wads of cerebrum, shards of bone, and thick slops of blood in every direction. He collapsed, dead before he even hit the ground.
"Bloody hell, lassie! Could yae've cut it any shorter?" Demoman said, both relieved and alarmed. Staggering a little, he came out from his pockmarked shelter, and eyed what was left of the Heavy's head; he plucked an eerily warm chunk of unknown matter from his shoulder and tossed it to the ground rather routinely. The Spy calmly slung out the revolver's chamber and reloaded.
"I only took a little off the top," she said indifferently as she pulled a handkerchief from her suit jacket, dabbing away at a few crimson spots that had the audacity to mar her sunglasses. "It's an improvement."
"Yer some bloody barber," He said, gathering himself. "Remind me to never ask yae for a haircut."
After that bit of excitement, the two continued on their trek. They trotted along without incident for some time, side by side. They ran along the statuesque perimeter of their depot at their left. Massive storage buildings sat to their right. Eventually the duo came to an empty, dusty clearing, right in between the opposing bases. Fairly certain of their next target, the Spy lead.
"STOP!" the Scotsman shouted.
The woman ceased. She was only a few steps away from the Demoman which was hardly any place dangerous, but the distressed expression on his face made her realize her mistake; it was far too late.
The blue dot sight was on her faster than she could have expected. The gunman was experienced. She could feel unfriendly eyes staring at her and the dot sight slowly creeping across her body. The Spy braced herself but was unafraid. Only a breath away from the safety, a few feet at most; she wondered if even that distance were too great. There was no hope in making a dash to the other side. With a warehouse located at her back, nothing between her position and the enemy's operation, and rows of windows facing her, this was a perfect place for unobstructed, precise shooting. Peering up, she could make out a far off glint from the third room of the second floor, a glare from a rifle's scope, the sniper's nest.
Why hadn't he fired yet?
Spy didn't want to test him.
Without wasting another moment, the Spy leapt toward the safety of the nearby wall; Demoman reached out to pull her to shelter. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash from the window; something whizzed by at incredible velocity, barely grazing her forehead.
"Are yae alright, lass?" her comrade said with concern as he held her by the shoulders.
The Spy said nothing; it was too close. She cleared her throat, regaining her composure.
"I'm fine."
"I forgot to mention their Sniper, the bloody campin' bastard's had us on the ropes— aye, yer bleedin'," The man said, letting her go.
Instinctively, the woman touched her fingertip to her wound. She was bleeding quite a bit and all over as it seemed. Vermillion had soaked through her balaclava and seeped from the tear; mingled with sweat, blood streamed down the right side of her forehead, cheek, and then jaw. Red splotches found their way down along her neck, and unfortunately to her collar and lapel. Biting the inside of her cheek and tightening her fingers on the revolver, the Spy exhaled. "We are going across," she demanded.
"An' how are we goin' to bloody do that?"
The pair heard a blundering crash; something large was barreling around close by. Then, as if on cue, their very hung-over Heavy came plowing out of a nearby doorway. He stomped past them rapidly, toward the clearing, swinging his mini-gun about and booming angrily about "baby men." He turned the corner and showed no intent on stopping. The second his head was no longer eclipsed by the walls, his temple was met with a sniper's bullet. Pink mist swirled where half of the Heavy's head used to be and the body crumpled into a flabby mass of fat and muscle.
The Demoman and the Spy both stood in stunned, voiceless silence for some time as the gunshot dissipated into the match's percussion.
The woman peeled herself off of the brick wall, and holstered her handgun. She sauntered over to the paunchy body and observed the fatal injury. The bullet hadn't travelled through entirely. Drawing her butterfly knife, she twirled it a few times, thinking. Inspiration struck like a back hand to the face. Smirking, she sheathed her knife.
"How much are you able to lift?" The Spy questioned firmly.
"Plenty, but what's that have to do with anything?"
The Spy bent over the corpse, remaining behind the wall, and with both her arms attempted to drag the body closer to their position. This proved to be a more difficult endeavor than she had intended, but not hopeless; her colleague would be useful.
"Aye, this is no time to be lootin' yer teammate! Have yae no respect?!" Demoman's voice rose, sounding affronted.
Spy glared up at her companion and gave him a disapproving look as she clumsily tried to lift the Heavy's body up. "I require assistance," she grunted.
The Demoman's eye perked with understanding. "Are yae seriously doin' what I think yer gon' to be doin'?" The burly Scot questioned as he too holstered his weapon.
The duo fumbled with the corpulent body for a few minutes, the dead Russian was far from light, as his class title suggested. Unexpectedly, he was nearly all muscle, not that it made the lift any easier; in fact, it made it more difficult.
"If we're actually goin' to do this, then we'll take the side entrance into their base," He said pointing toward their destination; it was at a diagonal to the shooter. "At that angle, he'll lose his line of sight sooner than if we came head-on." His voice ending with a near whisper, as though someone would hear.
Spy grimaced.
"Don't worry, yae can trust me," Demo said sincerely.
"I hope so," she breathed, becoming even more skeptical.
"Let's do it!" The Scotsman rallied as he tensed his arms.
They readied their portable wall and threw the Heavy's body up in between themselves and the shooter like a shield. Without any hesitation, they sprinted into no-man's-land, toward the BLU base.
As they bound out from their sanctuary, a frenzy of bullets rang out from the Sniper, striking their barrier like a torrent of hail. Surprisingly, the Heavy's bulk kept bullets from passing through, even in death, the large Russian could still be useful.
By the time they reached the halfway point, both teammates were pouring with sweat. Spy's biceps twitched despairingly. She ignored it, numbing herself and focusing on her task. Dusty earth swarmed about them as they ran, and the New Mexican heat became torturous.
They were only feet away from the pseudo-security of the enemy fortress. A few agonized strides later, their attacker ended his volleys. The pair threw off their portly, bloodied shield and stumbled behind cover, no longer downwind of the Sniper's rifle. With their backs to the wall, they fell to the ground, breathing raggedly with their arms limp at their sides.
"Spy…yer crazy, so crazy…I need a drink," Demoman struggled to say between inhales; he weakly reached for his bottle and swung it up as if to make a toast. "Here's to yae, yae insane French lass." He guzzled a mouthful and let out a belch. With his speech slurring from both exhaustion and inebriation, he rambled "I had no idea that would work, usin' the fat man for protection; if I weren't so sweaty and probably drunk right now, I'd kiss ya." Demo wiped his brow and motioned to Spy. "Aye, where are me manners, ya want any?" He offered his bottle to his co-worker.
She accepted gratefully; she missed alcohol. "Cheers," managed to get out between haggard inhales. Throwing her head back, the Spy took a large gulp of the ambiguous liquid. From the way her throat was burning, she assumed the liquor was scotch. The woman handed the bottle back and smiled.
For once it was genuine.