Author notes: Been pretty surprised with the responses I've been getting so far, wasn't really expecting anyone to notice this fic, let alone give it praise in any form. Your reviews, alerts, favourites, etc are highly appreciated. This chapter is a tad short and may not flow all that well. It's been a long, stressful day and I needed to bury myself in something. If the story suffers because of that, I apologise.
As ever, feedback is a massive help! Tell me what you like, what you hate, what you think needs work! As new as I am to writing fanfiction, I'd say I need all the help I can get!
Chapter 3: The Train to Teufort
The mercenary prowled his way through Dustbowl and beyond, once again leaving the strictly defined boundaries that they fought in and entering the area surrounding it. A bead of sweat trickled slowly down his brow as the relentless sun pounded down upon him from above, his heart still racing as he twitched his head to and fro. Whether it was to search for danger or prey, only he knew.
Dusty brown and oranges made up the landscape, a sharp contrast to the almost painfully blue sky above. The man glared at the sky for a moment, resenting the pain something as simple as a colour brought him. His mind was quiet, his heart was numb, and his movements were comparable to the machines his hands had brought into this world: repetitive, mechanical and deathly efficient.
A part of him expressed weariness and shame. He had lost control and despite what the BLUs had done, there was no need to kill the boy. There had to be an explanation, BLU had never done something so...cold and bloody before. As fiercely competitive as things had been, as the war had dragged on there had formed an almost friendly rivalry between the teams at times...
From a colder, more rational perspective, killing the Scout merely ensured that thanks to respawn, BLU would know that a member of RED still lived. If he'd just left him after the blow to the skull, he would have had a much better chance of escape. Perhaps even now the BLUs were preparing for him?
This line of thought was mostly ignored, the thoughts quieting before the roaring in his mind, the fire that pushed him through the abandoned mines that littered the area; the darkness and coolness within providing momentary respite from the flame in the sky. He was getting closer. There were a lot less tunnels and overturned minecarts were instead being replaced with crates and barrels. Not much longer until he reached the tracks...what would be waiting there?
A few intact buildings, minor shacks and in the distance, a train waited patiently on the tracks. A sound. The Engineer suddenly slowed his pace and pressed himself up against the wall of a nearby shack, his breathing sounding far too loud in his ears as he paused, debating whether to peek around the corner to identify the source.
And then it hit him, a stench that almost bowled him over, causing the Texan to fall to one leg with a quiet thump. The sounds suddenly became a lot more distinct and everything fell into place: the overpowering smell of alcohol and incoherent mumbling interrupted by the occasional snore. It would appear that he had almost stumbled upon the enemy Demoman, likely having recently celebrated the BLU victory the way he dealt with just about everything, by poisoning his liver and turning his breath into a weapon in its own right.
A quick glance around the corner confirmed this suspicion: the BLU Demoman had his back to a wall, several crates nearby strewn about and forced open, surrounded by a vast scattering of empty bottles and shards of glass. For a moment, as he took this sight in, the Engineer was almost his regular self, merely quietly observing, and calculating his next actions with care.
This was quickly extinguished as the Demoman moved in his sleep. "-gonna kill ya and keep killin' ya...and 'am never gonna...zzz" The Scottish cyclops grumbled, snoring again as he shifted back into a comfortable position. The Texan had retreated as soon as the BLU had moved and when he peeked around again, his face was set into a look of grim determination.
The train he sought had a cloud of steam above it he was certain wasn't there before and upon further observation there was a carpet of sticky bombs between him and his goal. Sparing only a single glance towards the drunken mercenary, he ran as best he could, putting more power into his left leg to compensate for his right as his arm pumped up and down, pistol still held tightly in his competent grip.
One leg crashing down, the other stretching forward, his body burning as he pushed himself forward, the world seeming to slow down as a whistle blew, urging him onwards. Another foot met earth, another kick, head turning as the Demolitions expert shifted in response to the whistle. The last RED stared at the BLU as he passed him, fire in his eyes, in his lungs, in his aching muscles.
It was then that his right foot planted itself on a whiskey bottle.
He saw it but could do nothing to stop it, slowly falling backwards as if moving through molasses as the bottle rolled forwards, making a little "chink" as it hit a rock embedded in the dirt. Another whistle, a puff of smoke and the cyclops awoke.
Time resumed as normal. The Texan fell onto his back with a grunt, turning to his side and getting up on his good leg, pointing his stolen pistol at the Scotsman, his remaining eye opening in surprise and then narrowing, hand already reaching for the grenade launcher beside him. The Demoman was surprisingly fast, considering his grogginess, but he wasn't fast enough. A stream of bullets escaped the pistol, a few missing, others impacting the BLU's body and one piercing his hand, causing him to recoil away from his primary weapon.
With a roar of pain he abandoned any attempts at retrieving his weapon and instead threw himself at the Engineer, fist pulling back even as the RED emptied the rest of his loaded ammunition into the charging Scot. The pistol clicked empty as the Demoman's fist grazed the Engineer's jaw, the drunken punch still causing a terrible impact that threw him back, dropping the handgun in the process. The BLU wobbled from the overcommitted punch, only just able to maintain his balance through his alcohol-induced haze. Stumbling back a little, this gave the Texan enough time to reach for his wrench, snarling as he did so.
His opponent could take a better beating than he could even if he was in better health and with the Scotsman's current state he likely could handle pain a good bit better too. But, the mercenary mused as he tightened his fingers around his melee weapon, there were some facts that couldn't be denied. Despite his frantic shooting, most of his shots had been good, solid hits at fairly close range. The pistol may not have been the fastest, most accurate or powerful weapon on the battlefield, but a full clip emptied into someone within optimum range?
As much as the weapon was underestimated by most, there was no denying that even hardier classes like the Solider and Demoman would be hurting something fierce and whilst it was not enough to concern a Heavy, we would certainly have known about it. Considering this and the Engineer's own condition, the next blow would likely be what decided this brawl.
The Demoman threw his weight forward again, fist travelling in a wide arc, sacrificing any speed, grace, or precision for raw power. The roundhouse found itself hitting thin air as the Engineer hurled his wrench straight forward, the tool leaving his vice-like grasp and embedding itself in the BLU's skull with a sickening crunch and squelch. The Texan took a single step back, breathing heavily as the Scot collapsed at his feet. He didn't bother trying to remove his wrench from his opponent's skull, instead catching his breath as he gazed intently on the corpse, waiting. A flicker, a fade, and the bloody wrench was on the dry earth, bloodstains and bottles the only proof of the Demoman's former presence as his sticky bombs detonated harmlessly to one side, kicking a cloud of dust up as they did so.
A whistle blew, a white cloud beyond the smoke and the Engineer grimaced, brought harshly back into reality, wrench already in hand as he ran through the dust. Pain flared in his chest and his right leg clicked as he pushed himself on, glad of the goggles that protected his eyes.
More liquid fire pulsating his veins, head rushing, body burning, dust settling...
Movement. A train departs a battlefield, having made its very last stop there. A stolen pistol lies forgotten in the dirt and dust behind it, clouds of it settling only to be moved again by an increasing wind. The train wheels spin, the steam trails from the front carriage, birds fly overhead and the wind howls as it picks up speed.
The sun glares down on Dustbowl. The tumbleweeds flee, the fires die down and eight of the finest mercenaries in the world sleep, with nobody to remember them and nothing to mark their passing. A man gasps for breath, coughing and shivering, body demanding rest as he vows that his team shall not die forgotten.
He wheezes and gives a little smile at having been able to jump into an open-topped trailer on the train as it sped by, before he leans over to one side and vomits, his body surrendering to his exertions. With a final gasp and splutter, his mind too succumbs to his exhaustion.