Leo shook out his wrists and ankles, while keeping a Timer Ball pinched between his cheek and shoulder. What was coming was nerve-wracking. He knew it. It was going to be a lot of fun looking back on it after the fact, but the lead-up and the actual action was boiling acid in his stomach. Today, he was sparring with his wife. Among the most powerful trainers in the world.
Cynthia loved him. He knew that. And she was a consummate professional in the ring. Which came part and parcel with not pulling punches, and being openly scary. But the fact that he was nervous was exactly why this had to happen. He used to live off his bloodlust. Food and water, those weren’t half as important or nourishing as battle. He used to fear nothing. Then for awhile he feared himself.
Now, like his life was being written by a past-his-prime writer phoning it, he feared his wife. Even if she was among the best, that wasn’t acceptable.
So today, they were having their 1-on-1. They could both use the sharpening, and his Tyranitar and Cynthia’s Garchomp had wanted to test each other properly ever since their last time working on a team together.
Leo caught his Timer Ball after he left it fall from his shoulder, and he gave it a toss. Orange fingers of light erupted out of the ball, release a blast of energy that formed a Tyranitar, the last strands of it reaching out and spinning like the hands of a clock. Tango caught a noise in his throat, nurtured it, and roared; sand started pouring out of the holes on his chest and knees, and Leo knew he was ready to fight.
Hot off his victory over E. Dale was dying for the next week of battles. He'd brought his prize, the new Boston Basher. But already, he found himself uncertain with the change in weaponry. Up until this point, his baseball was vital in his combat technique. Not to mention, he'd cut himself many times just handling it. He was about to rush back to his room and retrieve old-faithful, but it was too late - the alarm rang through the field and battles began.
He ran through the gates, holding his Shortstop ready. Straight away, he headed towards the first capture point to try and cut off any BLUs rushing towards it.
But this time he had his eye open for somebody in particular. Eva had given him the idea of confronting that arsehole BLU medic on the battlefield. Old dude like that would fold easy. Even though they'd probably crossed paths a dozen times before on the battlefield, this time was different. A nice clean kill on that guy would make Dale feel a little better about the whole "herpie" incident.
Protecting the capture point was a secondary objective. That medic was the first.
No sooner she arrived at base, the first day of battles were upon them. No time to get settled in. No time to familiarise herself with the landscape. She wasn't worried. From her brief conversations with her fellow REDs, one thing was clear - she outsmarted everyone on this field. Brutes with explosions. She even caught glimpse of a kid wielding a baseball bat with nails like a cave dweller.
She split away from the team, fumbling with her disguise kid - picking one of the BLU medics at random. Hopefully, she would find her way behind the front lines.
Although the RED team won the previous week of battles, Dale lost his bet with Jin. This week, he had something to prove. It was also the first time since Christmas that his loadout had changed. Replacing his usual, delicious can of Bonk! was his new weapon - the Flying Guillotine. He didn't know yet whether or not he'd keep using it, but it wouldn't hurt to give it a try.
He threw it a few feet into the air, planning to catch it by the handle as it came back down. He watched the blade turn towards him - seemingly in slow motion - and quickly withdrew his outstretched hand. The knife landed it his feet with a loud clatter. He was bent over, picking it out of the dirt as the siren rang through the battlefield, declaring the start of battle.
This time, he ran straight towards the BLU base - hopefully he could get them while their guard was down. Cut them off even before they reached the first capture point. With his new toy held tightly, he darted head-first towards the enemy.
Dale stood guard at the bottom of the tower, pulling the brim of his hat down to shelter his eyes from the rain. Leon was up the top - a prime target for the BLUs this week - and Dale never strayed far from him. He was going to protect that big, sick, idiot.
Staying in one place was boring, at the Scout was restless. He passed around the tower, jogging in place in an attempt to stay dry and warm. He breathed deeply, a fog cloud drifting from his mouth. Suddenly, he heard a noise. Footsteps.
He darted behind the tower for shelter, squinting his eyes to try and make out the figure in the dim night-light. They were BLU. He gripped his shotgun. Maybe they hadn't seen him. A wide grin spread across his face - he'd wait for them to get a little closer before darting out for an ambush.
January in Teufort is a bright, breezy affair, but the voice of the Administrator is sharp and cold as she counts down the start of the battle. The BLUs cluster together, strategizing lowly under the eldest Medic’s direction.
The gates roll open, and the Soldier charges for the bridge, Darren and Amelia are close on his heels, toolbox and Medigun in hand, forming a tight chain of blue light and crashing rockets. The Snipers make for the roof, the Spy vanishes in shadow and smoke.
“I have an idea,” the Medic whispers to Ulyana, making for the sewer stairs.
The BLU defense is strong, much stronger than usual, but neither team pushes forward towards the intelligence. They seem locked in stalemate.
The Scout is perched beside Catty, scanning the field for an opening as she exchanges shots with one of the BLUs.
“Don’t think there’s a way across,” he concludes from his observation. The Sniper snorts in reply. “I got an idea. Don’t miss me too much,” he adds, turning and jogging for the back stairs.
The RED Medic and Soldier stood in the battlements, assessing the scrambling BLUs.
“Ve might have to go underground,” the Medic started, fidgeting with the dials and switches on the medigun. “Just to avoid zhe onslaught. Have any ideas, Fräulein?”
“Well, I have one, doc, and you ain’t gonna like it.” She rests her rocket launcher on one shoulder, and picks up the Medic with her free arm. Afterward, she pointed the rocket launcher to the ground.
“Vhat do you- hey puT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW-”
She jumps off, boosted by the rocket, and holds a screaming Bauer all the way across the field. Spectators stopped what they were doing for a moment and watched, beholding the ginger Corporal and her raving German doctor. Soon enough, they were out of sight, and everyone returned to their business.
The Spy finds Jonah in the labyrinth of RED’s ground floor, trying to advance onto the field. The Sniper strafes side to side, feet smoking faintly from dodging rockets, but the Spy can’t get past him undetected. He flicks his knife open, dropping his cloak.
“Are we dancing?”
The Sniper's eyes sting from the smoke and the thick sulphur smell of spent explosives. His last shot had been off, ricocheting harmlessly off the Soldier's helmet.
He ducks back behind the wall as a new barrage of rockets hits the base. The Spy is only a few steps away. It would take too long to pull out his kukri. He drops the rifle, flicking open his hunting knife.
"Dancing? Nah, mate," Jonah says. "Got to buy me roses if you wanna tango."
The Scout wrings the water from his hat as he emerges from the moat on BLU side. He can see two shadows, stretched and looming from around the corner, and he chances a peek.
“You two think you’re bein’ sneaky?” Ani takes out his scattergun, fires two shots blindly around the corner. “I can see you, assclowns.” He reloads, and peeks again.
Ulyana stands guard on the short, raised platform, Medigun at her feet, shotgun in her hands, but she makes no move to fire. The Medic stands closer, wielding a wickedly curved blade.
“This some kind of fuckin’...rematch?” the Scout asks, incredulous. He slides his shotgun into his bag, takes out his bat. “I can do this all day.” He dashes to one side, coming in at an angle, and swings his bat low, looking to sweep the Medic’s feet out from under him.
The doctor is quick, unencumbered by the Medigun. He sidesteps, and the bat makes a splash in the ankle-deep water.
Otto turns and extends the knife. The curved blade catches the RED, thrown forward by his own momentum. The blow is glancing, mere pressure, but it's enough for the tip of the amputation knife to tear through the shoulder of the Scout's tee, tracing a shallow line of blood across his back.
"It's a different game this time," the Medic says.
The Scout rolls his shoulders with a hiss, but doesn’t slow, running for the low railing of the platform. He launches himself off, bat in his off hand as he aims a flying kick for the Medic’s chest.
The cleat cuts into his chest and the Medic is thrown back into the wall of the pipe. A punch lands, splitting his lip, but Otto has a hand knotted in the boy's shirt, and takes the Scout with him. They fall, rolling and splashing in the stagnant water.
Otto hears the Heavy call him, but there's water in his ears. The warning pump of the shotgun is clear.
"Nein," he calls. The blood welling in his mouth makes the word ring harsh, but she stays back.
He has hold of the Scout like a bulldog, he can let the boy sputter, as long as he's close. The boy reels back for another blow, bat twirling, taunt half-formed on his lips. The ebony handle of the amputation knife is in the Medic's other hand. He stabs the blade up, and it catches like a meathook in the Scout's abdomen.
The Scout crumples around the blade with a breathless cry, hand locking around the Medic’s wrist. The bat very nearly slips from his fingers. He can’t get enough of an angle to swing the bat, but he switches his grip on it, driving it up and into the Medic’s solar plexus.
The Medic loses his grip on the knife as the wind is knocked out of him. He slides down the tunnel wall, taking shallow, panicked breaths.
He is satisfied to see blood darkening the Scout's shirt around the silver blade.
Ani tries to get his feet under him, hand pressing uselessly to his stomach. A hand knots in his collar, the Heavy is dragging him back, through the water and up the short steps. The cool of her shotgun presses to the base of his skull.
“Come, finish job,” she calls over to the Medic. “Have many other REDs to kill!”
"This is the only RED I care about today," the Medic whispers. He gets to his feet, walks unsteadily up the stairs to kneel by the Scout. The blade is still in his stomach. The Medic wraps his fingers around the handle.
"You made a mistake taunting me," the doctor says.
“Go fuck yourself.” The Scout spits at the Medic, and tastes blood.
"I'll be needing this back." Otto gives the knife a twist and eases it out. The Scout gives a pitiful whine.
A slow smile lights the Medic's bloodied face. "Heavy," he says sweetly, pushing up his glasses. "Hold him down."
The Spy ducks as the Sniper’s hunting knife slashes deftly through the air, missing his ear by a breath. He laughs and lunges, nicking the Sniper across the chin.
“Close enough shave for you?”
Jonah wipes the blood away with the back of his hand.
"I know I'm due for one," he says. "But man, not the face; it's my only asset."
He adjusts his grip on his knife again, resting his thumb on the spine of the blade. He sidesteps, trying a swipe at the Spy's knife hand.
The sharp steel shears through the soft leather of the Spy’s glove in a splash of red. He snarls something ugly, and strips off his glove.
“And the gloves are mine,” he replies, glove tight in his hand. “No gentleman would cause such injury.” He strikes the Sniper across the face with the ruined leather.
"A thousand apologies," the Sniper says with mock bravado. He sweeps his hat from his head in a dramatic bow.
"What's it gonna be, sir Spook? Pistols at ten paces?" Jonah takes a step back into the open doorway.
Spy flips his knife back into jacket, and withdraws his revolver, hammer clicking into place. He takes several exaggerated steps back towards the interior of the base. He opens his mouth to taunt the Sniper, and finds himself choking on smoke, ears ringing.
The Sniper’s boots stand smoking in the doorway, the rest of him covering the walls.
“Wasting time,” Ulyana cautions, but she pulls the Scout’s arms behind his back, enormous hands pinning him in place. The Scout jerks in a panic, but he can’t wrench his arms free. In his desperation, he kicks one foot up against the Medic’s shoulder and pushes.
The Medic catches the Scout's ankle and twists it.
"Hush," he says. "I would tell you this will be over soon, but well....it's not."
In his belt pouch, the doctor has prepared a small surgical kit wrapped in clean canvas: scalpels, a pair of hemostats, clamps, a sponge, and two syringes of adrenaline. He rolls the kit out on the stairwell.
The Scout starts to struggle in earnest. The Heavy keeps him pinned so the Medic can snap a tourniquet above his knee.
"That should be tight enough," Otto says. "Are you excited? I know I am."
He tosses the boy's cleat and drenched sock into the water, running the flat of the scalpel over the Scout's shin.
"Now. Where to begin."
“Hurry the fuck up, would ya? I got your intel to steal.” The Scout tries to feign boredom, but the scalpel kisses over the back of his ankle and his voice shatters into breathless panic.
“I’m serious, let me go!”
The Medic laughs, tightening his grip on the Scout's leg. "You can leave once I'm done."
The doctor makes the first incision quickly. The scalpel parts the skin in a line midway around the scout's shin. Blood wells between the Medic's fingers as he reaches into the incision, spreading the skin so he can see the bright muscle beneath.
The Scout screams and struggles, but the Heavy has one arm under his neck, the other pinning his arms.
Otto takes up another blade. This cut he savours, feeling each strand of sinew snap beneath the razor edge. The Scout kicks uselessly, desperately, tendons exposed to the air as he fights against the hands keeping him pressed to the concrete.
The Medic leans in, strums his fingers like a harp across the ligaments, and the Scout jackknifes with a cry, muscles straining beneath the man’s palm. He carves through them like a hot turkey as the Scout squawks and shouts beneath the scalpel.
Finally the bone is exposed, white as sour milk under the flickering fluorescent light.
"Can you run now?" the Medic taunts. He picks up the bloody amputation knife.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” the Scout pants. “I’m gonna beat your fuckin’ girlfriend to death, and then I’m gonna break your kneecaps with her arm. I’m gonna carry your head in the intel and ship it to the fuckin’ Administrator and she’s gonna put it on a God-damn pike, and then I’m gonna feed the rest of ya to the fuckin’ crows.”
"A crow am I?" The Medic smiles. "Stay awake, Saukerl, I want you to remember how it feels to have your bones picked clean."
The Scout's brave act falters as the doctor slowly lowers his blade, running the length of it across the boy's tibia, light as a feather.
"Wait," the RED says, his voice a squeak. "Wai--"
With fervor, the Medic begins to saw through his leg.
The Scout howls like a dog in a bear trap, high and pleading. His head falls back against the concrete, leaving a bloody smear as he cracks his skull into the ground over and over and over, screaming incomprehensible snatches of something that sounds like prayer. Ulyana pulls his head into her lap, blood staining across her legs.
The best surgeons boasted they could saw through a femur in thirty seconds. After a minute, the saw is barely half-through. While it had been sharpened to the best edge that it could hold, the design is obsolete. It lacks the teeth of modern saws, and so acts more like a strong file than a surgical tool.
Finally the bone gives with a satisfying crack, exposing the marrow. The Medic twists it to the side to break the last filaments and tosses the severed limb into the water. The Scout gives a hoarse cry and falls back into the Heavy's arms.
The air is hot, the copper smell intoxicating. The doctor breathes heavily, he pauses to wipe sweat from his brow, leaving a bloody streak from his glove.
"Where is the fire?" Otto asks. "The taunts, the fight? Are you extinguished so easily, boy?"
The Scout doesn't answer. He lays still, eyes half-lidded, pale and gasping like a fish. Ulyana strokes a hand over his forehead, shushing him faintly. “Think he is, Doktor. Is plenty.”
"No, no, it's not over that easily."
The Medic throws aside the knife. He takes up a needle with shaking fingers and plunges it into the Scout's chest.
"Who said you could leave? Ich bin noch nicht fertig."
The Scout goes rigid, spine arching, remaining foot scraping for purchase in the cement. The Heavy loses her hold on his arms and he falls to his side, hands pressed to his throat as though he’s trying to tear out his own racing pulse. His body trembles with tiny, wracking spasms, punctuated only by the rasp of his breath against his bloodied teeth. His eyes are wild, the Heavy makes no move to pin him again, stepping back from the heady scent of blood and panic.
“Is plenty, Doktor.”
"He's still alive," the doctor hisses into the Scout's ear. "And I will keep you that way until I tire of your struggles."
The Medic sticks his hand in the Scout's stomach wound. The cut is wide, soon his hand is in past his wrist, he can feel the Scout's liver and reaches farther. The boy writhes, curling against his arm, nails breaking as he claws the floor. The Medic’s fingers crook against a slippery mass of tissue, and the Scout gags, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, bubbling with every whimpering breath.
The skin stretches to tearing. The Medic can feel the slick softness of winding intestines, a pulsating stomach. He pushes through the membrane easily until his fingertips brush the fluttering ends of lungs.
With his other hand he takes up his scalpel and widens the incision. The Scout's skin parts like warm butter against the razor edge. A spurt of blood splashes across Otto's face but his smile only widens. His coat is soaked, arm stained past his elbow.
He pushes the Scout's diaphragm aside, reaching into the cage of his ribs. The doctor's hand is too large, the ribs too tight, but he can feel the Scout's heart beating, sporadic and strained.
"Not many can take a beating like this," Otto says. His laughter echoes in the tunnel, deep and mocking as a raven's caw.
“Enough!” Ulyana interrupts sharply, hand knotting in the back of the Medic’s coat, hauling him off the Scout. His hand comes free with a sickening squish, the Scout cries out weakly, curling into a shuddering, shivering ball.
Half of the Medic's tools are scattered into the water.
"What do you think you're doing?" he shouts. "I wasn't done."
The Heavy doesn’t flinch. She kneels beside the Scout, touching a hand to his shoulder as she collects her shotgun, slogging past the Medic and into the tunnel.
“I am.”
The Heavy's words hit him harder than any bullet and Otto stares after her long after she has disappeared into the tunnels, speechless.
Weak fingers knot in the sleeve of his lab coat. With a disgusted growl the Medic takes a scalpel and slits the boy's throat, leaving the boy to mercifully bleed out as he storms back to the battle above.
Respawn throws the Scout to the floor, and he gulps down a single, stuttering breath before phantom fingers reach up his throat.
He stumbles blindly to the toilet and throws up everything he’s eaten in the past two days, but the hand remains lodged between his ribs, squeezing and stroking. He spends the next twenty minutes dry-heaving, face bloodless and drenched in cold sweat. His heart pounds audibly, and he presses both hands over it, forehead dropping to the cool tile of the floor.
His voice is wrecked. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” he chokes. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”
Kurt is still yelling when they land on the BLU roof, and continues to until well after they had jumped down to the dusty courtyard. When he finally fell to the ground (despite Charlie’s efforts to set him on his feet), he looked like he were either about to cry or tear her head off.
“Let’s go, Arschloch,” he muttered irritably, medigun at the ready. “Ve should be in zhe clear, except for zhe Snipers. Ve should be careful.”
“Yessir,” she replied with a smirk, drawing her shotgun and leading the way underground.
“You damn well should be!” Gavin shouts from behind the Medic. The man’s too close to get off a good shot; the Sniper drops his bow with a clatter, bolts across the floor, and leaps onto the doctor’s back.
Still in shock from the ride over, there's nothing the Medic can do except let gravity pull him and his enemy to the ground. His muscles unexpectedly ache when he tries to fight off the gangly Sniper, signaling at an inappropriate time that he hasn't been resting enough.
Just before the scuffle got nasty, the Soldier stepped in. She took Gavin by the collar, holding him at arm's length and as far off the floor as possible. The barrel of her shotgun rested against his chest.
"We've got business to do, n-now fuck off," she said curtly, looking him dead in the eyes.
The Sniper locks eyes with her, and then someone behind her, and just to the left. His hand moves slowly to his back, fingers curling around the antler hilt of his hunting knife.
“You got it, shiela. Fuckin’ off.” He makes a diving leap to one side, knife flashing for the Medic’s chest. The Soldier’s shot goes wide, buckshot clipping the Sniper low in the back. She pumps the shotgun, but before she can take aim, Olivia leaps onto her back, taking them both to the floor.
Before the two hit the floor, Olivia has Charlie in a necklock.
“I’m sorry but your business interferes with our business so I’m afraid you’ll be the one’s fucking off.”
Her slim figure hid muscles now bulging thicker on her slender arms around the soldier’s neck. Struggle as she might, Olivia’s grip is vice-like and wrist refuses to part with hand.
The more the two writhed, the deeper Olivia’s thin arms dug into Charlie’s neck, closing tighter around her windpipe.
“Get- Get offa me...” She gasps, trying to reach far enough behind her to pull the thin woman off her. The only response is a tighter force around her neck.
Charlie’s scrambling weakens slowly. Her gasps become more intermittent as her vision grays and fades to a uniform darkness. the air finally escapes her crumpled windpipe in a rasping rattle. Olivia lets go once she hears a faint pop.
With his only help on the ground being strangled, Kurt has no choice but fight off Gavin. He attempts to roll them over and grapple the knife out of the Sniper’s hand, and add pain to the bleeding wound on his back.
The Medic’s heel digs hard into the Sniper’s back, he cries out but doesn’t relinquish his grip on the blade, slashing up at the Medic’s side.
The wound stings along his ribs, but thankfully isn’t deep. He attempts to knee him in the stomach with a growl, any control or niceties lost in his fatigue.
The Sniper twists in his grip, and the Medic’s knee drives the breath from him in a rush. Gavin flops back against the floor, knife loose in his hand as he struggles to regain his breath.
“Good hit,” he manages. “You’re not pullin’ any punches today, are ya?”
“I need sleep,” he replies earnestly. “The only vay to get zhat is by ending zhe round. So…”
He snatches the knife from the Sniper’s open grasp, and stabs him in the heart without hesitation.
“See you one zhe other side,” he whispers.
He looks behind him: his Soldier was dead, and the other Sniper was down. Before the young woman can get up and give chase, he dashes off in a hurry towards the Intel room.
For several straight minutes, he sprints, and when he is finally greeted by the (thankfully empty) room, he rests against the desk and attempts to catch his breath.
There is no help for him in sight, but there isn't any trouble, either. Maybe he should just take the intel and go...
Hesitantly, his hand rests above the case while he steels himself. Then, anxieties tossed aside, he nabs the handle and runs.
"The enemy has taken your intelligence!"
Jonah had missed the announcement about the Intelligence. He respawns disoriented, a laugh still on his lips, and heads again for the front doorway. The Spy is long gone, but the wood is still smoking faintly.
He peeks around the corner. The trio of BLUs are still blocking the entrance to their base from the bridge. There is a thunderous report from above and the BLU Soldier goes down in a splash of red.
The Engineer isn't even bothering to hide behind his sentry.
Jonah kneels to steady himself. The Engineer seems aware of the laser point as Jonah lines up the shot. He looks towards Jonah's hiding spot, it is hard to tell behind the goggles, and stands stock-still. It's like shooting a statue.
The Engineer falls, a neat hole under his eye, and Jonah reloads the bolt. One charged bullet is enough to take out the sentry from a safe distance. It goes down in a small explosion of smoke and metal.
The Sniper takes up his rifle and crosses the bridge, a little shaken at how easy it had been to take out the entire BLU nest. It had been easy for a while. Ever since...
Amelia dashes inside. He lets her go, all he wants is to end the battle. He doesn't know what happened to Kurt and Charlie, but something must have gone wrong BLU-side.
The labyrinthine foyer is clear, the path to the Intelligence room unguarded. The Sniper remains cautious as he creeps into the Intelligence room, but the desk is bare.
"Aces, they've already got it," he says, relieved.
The Sniper starts to make his way back, climbing the stairs to the courtyard. He hears a door shoot up behind him with a shunk. He raises his rifle.
The BLU Engineer exits the resupply, walking with a little more energy, but he doesn't have a weapon, not even his wrench.
"Hey, you!" the Sniper shouts. "What's your problem, huh?"
The Engineer pulls off his goggles, hand swiping across his eyes. Jonah sees red streaks, black circles, blue unfocused.
“Didn’t see ya,” he says finally, but doesn’t reach for a weapon, just scrubs at his face, shoulders raised in defensive exhaustion.
“Bullshit,” the Sniper replies sharply, and the Engineer flinches far harder than he should.
“Froze up,” he tries. “Saw Sarge go down, panicked, woke up in respawn, that’s all.
“You gonna shoot me now, Hoss?”
"No," the Sniper says, shaking his head. "No, I'm not. I don't work like that. I don't shoot defenseless targets."
It would almost be a mercy killing, though. The man looks about ready to drop dead.
"If you want to die so bad, do it yourself, or...find someone else." Jonah backs away, shouldering his rifle, but doesn't turn to leave.
"You alright, hardhat?"
The Engineer breathes out a sigh, but Jonah can’t tell if its relief or disappointment.
“‘preciate the concern, but it’s really not any of your business.” Darren unslings his shotgun. “Now get goin’ ‘fore I’m not defenseless anymore.”
"Right." The Sniper tips his hat and disappears up the stairs, heading RED-side.
The RED Medic's lungs burned as he ran through the tunnels, exertion nearly too much to bear, but he knew he couldn't stop now. The BLUs were hot on his tail, sending bullets, rockets and arrows his way. He was lucky he'd only been nicked by some crossfire.
He could see the mid-morning light at the end of the concrete sewer, and, with gusto, he jumped into the moat and slowly swam to his side. He threw the blue briefcase into the tunnel at the other side soon enough, hauling himself into it with some difficulty, finding hard to lift himself with his muscles resisting use at every turn and his soaked clothes and equipment. Once he was in, he flipped off the advancing BLUs for their time, and started to run again.
The Spy cleans off his suit as best he can, dropping bloodied bits of the Sniper as he climbs the base’s steps. He makes for the intelligence, and nearly bumps into the RED Pyro, turning sharply up the stairs to the battlements to avoid her. He catches the youngest Sniper ducked under the window, pouring herself another cup of coffee.
“Afternoon, minou.”
“Oh, hey,” she said quietly, taking a sip of cofffee. “I see that your Soldier’s kill count ain’t sufferin’ today... It’d be a shame if, oh, I dunno, someone killed him.”
She leans out of the window with her rifle, takes a second to aim, and fires. The rocket noises stopped abruptly, and she turned back to her friend with a smirk.
The Spy stares out the window for a moment, impressed by the shot. “A shame indeed,” he agrees. “You know I can’t let that stand.”
He gets to one knee, lays his revolver and knife on the floor. “But the choice of weapon goes to the lady.”
Her smirk grows wildly devilish as she pulls the revolver behind her with her foot. She draws her own blade, in an effort to be evenly matched. “You know me, Spy. I’ve got this big ol’ blade and my clumsy self. I thought it well to give you the advantage today.”
“Considerate of you,” he remarks, twirling the blade over and around his fingers. He flips the blade closed, then open, and closed again. A rocket shatters the window, they both duck away, the Spy coming up behind the Sniper. He takes an extra moment to give the knife a second twirl, and stabs down at her back.
She twirls around in the nick of time, blocking the balisong with her kukri, but he cuts the unscarred side of her face. It bleeds sluggishly down her cheek, making her look more feral than usual. She pushes against his dominant hand with the sharp side of the blade, trying to flay open his other glove and inflict some damage.
“You Snipers and your gloves!” he wails melodramatically as blood drips from the rent in the fine leather. “Terribly cruel!” Barely able to control his laughter, he staggers back a pace, hand thrown over his eyes.
“Oh, but you will pay.” In a snappy riposte, the Spy lunges forward, slashing across the Sniper’s stomach.
She staggered back, clutching the wound gently. It wasn’t deep, but it started to bleed nearly right away. She couldn’t hold her laughter anymore, chuckling as she steadied herself.
“You’re the one who’s paying, bastard. This shirt actually fits.” Dashing forward, she slashed at the man’s knee with her cruel machete.
The Spy looks genuinely sorry for only a moment, crumpling to the ground with a cry of pain as the kukri drives into his knee. He adjusts his grip on his blade, and very nearly counterattacks, stopped only by the klaxons announcing RED team’s victory.
“A good fight, minou. Help an old man to his feet?”
"Sure thing," she replies with a smirk, firmly grasping his arm and helping him up slowly. A little of his blood rubbed off onto her sleeve, but she figured she could wash it out later. She picked up his gun, and helped him stay standing.
Neither of them could walk too well, so they helped each other, the Spy's arm resting across the Sniper's shoulders and hers braced across his back. Together, they limped slowly down the stairs, keeping an eye out for Medics or medkits, when they were greeted by two buff men in suits.
They said nothing, only stared at them from behind their sunglasses and crossed their arms. The two mercenaries shared a glance, and drew out their knives. They separated, each running towards one man.
The tiny Sniper was immediately grabbed around her middle, and she fought to get out of the man's grip, kicking and screaming. After a few kicks to the knees and a jagged bite on his arm, the man drew a cloth from his back pocket and held it to her mouth and nose. She continued to scream as loud as she could for minutes, but she eventually succumed to the chloroform's power, head lolling to one side.
"Catty!" the Spy yelled hoarsely, genuinely afraid for his young friend. The other man grabbed him from behind, and a similar struggled ensued. Another cloth was pressed to his face as he cried out for help, and the last thing he saw before he passed out was Catty's frail, bleeding unconscious body being dragged out of sight.
Leyline manipulation permits rapid shifts in casting styles
Split-mind permits simultaneous casting of up to three lower-grade spells
Lichform grants minor damage resistance, immunity to several metabolic hazards, and extreme pain resistance
Genius-level tactician and strategist
Extreme combat flexibility
Master-class understanding of Draconic Wordcasting.
Noteworthy Traits & Equipment:
Cannot be permanently killed without destruction of her phylactery.
Archmage robes of office warded against blades, hammers, fire, frost, lightning, and many minor magics.
Archmage's staff enhances magical potency and can hold/maintain spells.
Unmatched will and magical power
Mentally unhinged and unpredictable.
Setting:
The top of the Archmage's Tower in Aelune, Arcadia.
----
The capital city of Aelune, in the floating nation of Arcadia, lays silent. Forest has begun to overtake civilization, and the vast majority of inhabitants have long since departed, splitting off into nomadic tribes, small bands of wanderers, even a few lone wolves.
At the top of the Archmage's Tower, second only to the Royal Palace in grandeur, however, at least one inhabitant remains.
Hair loose and limp, pale skin drawn taut over flesh and bone, the Vonmindoraan busies herself scurrying from point to point in the lab, investigating a tank's fluid levels here, checking on thaumic flow there.
Pausing, from moment to moment, to stare at her creation in giggling delight, gaunt eyes roaming reverently over the vast form in the center of the circle.
It took a lot of time and effort to create her. Just tracking down enough dragons of the appropriate colours had been a chore - and even then it wasn't perfect.
There weren't really any copper dragons left to hunt, after all.
Well, there weren't really any dragons at all left to hunt, anymore.
The stitched flesh and magically grafted scales flowed almost, but not quite, flawlessly - at a glance, you might be forgiven for mistaking the creature for a real dragon. Two huge tanks filled with a thick, viscous red liquid stand to the side, piping leading from closed taps into the abomination's limbs and chest.
At the edges of the circle, at equilateral points, three massive crystals stand, pulsating with a deep blue light that runs through the engraved markings on the floor.
The air thrums, and Chalenna drinks it in with a giddy expression.
The Administrator’s announcement rings through the whirring of the supercomputers, and the Engineer is paralyzed for a single, terrible moment. Without the correct punchcard, the Scout would continue to respawn endlessly, incorrectly. Ducking beneath the console, Darren pops the card out once again, tucking it safely into his breast pocket.
As he gathers his toolbox and coat, his mind is elsewhere, already fitting together patterns of binary code to bring their Scout back.
Hearing the familiar voice of the Administrator, Amelia gripped her Medigun more tightly. Forgetting about whatever she had been previously thinking, she shoots a panicked look towards Otto, unsure of where to go or what to do. Couldn’t they get a small ounce of rest around here? Huffing, she charges up her Medigun and prepares to follow her teammates back out onto the battlements once more.
“Opposite side! Raus, raus!” Kurt ushers his team out the door, giving the opposite doctors and the laid up Demoman a nod of the head before rushing out behind them.
They huddle into the destroyed hallway together, ushering the confused repairmen into cover and fiddling with their weapons.
“Alright,” The doctor says with a breathless air, fixing the Medigun’s hose and dials, “Keep zhe repairmen out of zhe line of fire; I don’t care about zhe other team getting the intelligence, just make sure no guns are pointed their way. Pyro and I will do vhat we can, but we’re on zhe defensive today.”
He looks at each of them. “Are you all okay to go?”
Catty nods, a determined scowl set on her face. She reloads her rifle quickly and with anger, slinging it across her back and taking the submachine gun from her hip and shoving a new clip into the chamber.
Kurt looks slighty surprised and confused, but doesn't say anything. He instead looks for the other two's approval of the battle plan.
As the three Medics hustle through the common room, Mediguns blazing, the Heavy feels very much in the way. After bumping into Amelia for the third time, she ducks out, trotting upstairs to collect her equipment.
Unsurprisingly, everything is in top condition, she’d had little to do, and gun maintenance had been something to occupy the restless days.
Instead, she collects her soap, her towel.
The water is scarcely lukewarm, but Ulyana scrubs and shampoos and sighs until her fingers pucker prunishly. Her toes reluctantly prod the rug, loathe to step from the water that was inching comfortably towards tepid, but the Administrator’s voice crackles from the hallway speaker, and the Heavy nearly slips in her haste to leave.
She throws on her uniform far too quickly, needing to rebutton her flak vest twice before she gets it right, grimacing as the fabric clings to the skin she hadn’t had time to dry. Her hair lies tangled and dripping against her back, she whips it into a hasty bun, jamming her hat down over it as she thunders down the staircase and out the door, minigun in hand.
Her hair freezes instantly, arms prickling with goosebumps, she hadn’t had time to grab a jacket, but she’s more concerned that she’s nearly a minute and a half late to battle.
“Am very sorry!” she pants, catching up to the eldest Medic. “Will not be late again!”
"If you're on time, you're late," Otto chides, happy to see the Heavy on the field, nonetheless. "Late and you're fire--"
The Medic is cut off by a sharp crack. A bullet zings into the ground at the his feet. He ducks and the Heavy steps in front of him, minigun spinning. A second bullet catches her shoulder, but Otto already has the Medigun pointed at her and the wound is soon closed.
The Heavy advances up the hill slowly, raking the sides of the building with bullets. The Medic follows closely. If he and Ulyana could make it to the mill, they could easily break RED's line of defense.
Seeing the older Medic take off with the Heavy, Amelia looks around for someone to follow behind and support. The Heavy being taken care of leaves her running to find the next man she can think of who’d need assistance. Gavin was safest among the rooftops while the Engineer had his sentries and dispensers and Tim...where was Tim? She hadn’t heard anyone say a word about the Scout...but she had heard the tinkle of dog tags carried by footsteps that were not his. She didn’t want to think the worst but...
Irked because she hadn’t been able to grab her extra set of glasses in time but happy that at least the snow wasn’t blowing, she runs around in haste, searching for the Soldier.
"Come back here and FIGHT LIKE MEN!" Sarge shouts, charging straight past Amelia to launch himself onto the catwalk. He aims a rocket at the RED Medic as he flees into the mill.The RED Pyro dashes in, sending the projectile flying back toward the Soldier with a blast of compressed air.
The Soldier sidesteps, the rocket coming close enough to singe his uniform. It explodes on the wall of the BLU base, leaving the siding scorched; and the REDs escape to their side unscathed. Having been following behind, Amelia sidesteps right behind him, keeping the glow of the medi-gun attuned to his back as much as possible while running through the snow.
Jonah ducks behind a crate to avoid the hail of gunfire. "How you doin' there, Catty?"
Catty doesn't answer, but ducks down to reload.
"Hey, don't get trapped in your scope," he reminds her. "S'just us on defense. Remember what I told ya about stayin' mobile?"
She nods, frowning with grim determination.
"Good. We've got this in the bag, then." He gives her a wink and takes a few bullets from his pocket. He takes aim carefully before firing down at the advancing BLUs.
Jonah watches the German go down with a certain satisfaction, his knee exploding red. Just because he was a good shot didn't mean he had to make it quick.
"That's for Erin's leg, you bastard," the Sniper mutters.
Erin, still recovering in BLU is thrust into hyperalertness when the Soldier’s rocket smashes into the the base. He jerks up, having found his weapons. He takes aim at a blue silhouette and fires wildly. The lamp takes heavy damage. The blowback hits Erin and dazes him, his finger still on the trigger. One last grenade bounces about the room, coming to a stop next to the couch the Demoman is sitting on.
“Oh shite,” he whimpers before being blasted into the air. Everything becomes nothing and shortly after, nothing becomes everything again as he’s coughed up by respawn at his own base. He’s standing for once, but has to hop over to a bench to sit, his crutches not coming with him. It was one way to get back to base.
The Soldier sees a muzzle flash and the crack of a rifle as one of the RED Snipers pops out of cover to shoot at the BLUs below. He fires a second rocket, intending to arc it nearly up and into the window, but the wind catches it, sending the projectile over the crest of the mill roof to the edge of the pines.
Catty looks at the rocket in horror. “Fuck! That’s where we sent the civs!” She hops up and runs toward it, disregarding Jonah’s pleas to come back. Climbing down the roof of the tiny supply shack, she screams at the repairmen to run and take cover. One of them was hurriedly working on a few telephone pole wires, and she shoves him up.
“That’s not important, go!”
She runs with him as the rocket grows closer, and shoves him out of the way as it comes down.
Bloody and broken, she lies on the ground, trying hard to breathe. The grim frown still frames her face, and her brow is set in an angry line.
“Mother FUCKER!” she yells hoarsely, hugging her injured leg to chest. “BAUER!”
He didn’t hear Catty’s cry, but he sure as hell could hear Jonah cussing out the Soldier. After telling him and the Pyro to hold the line, he runs to the back of the base to pull her upwards.
“Don’t hold zhat to your chest, you’ll make it worse.” He flips on the Medigun to full power, and points it at her, closing all of her wounds. He offers a hand to her, and pulls her up.
“Thanks,” she mutters curtly, storming up into the nest. Jonah watches as she angrily shoves a bullet into the chamber of her rifle, aims outside, and shoots for the Soldier’s chest.
“It’s on, bitch.”
Despite the aching stiffness of his freshly-healed leg, Gavin picks his way slowly up to the mill roof, cautious of the ice. The wind gives him a puffy, snow-swirling patch of cover as he perches on the peak of the roof, reaching into his quiver.
He pulls out the splintered remains of half an arrow, frowning. He’d forgotten he landed on the damn thing. He continues to rummage, but only a handful of arrows had survived. He had more in the barracks, half-finished on his cluttered workbench, but for now, he’d half to make these count.
Dropping to his stomach, the Sniper scoots across the rooftop, peeping into the hole left in the mill roof. He draws his bow, waiting for an unsuspecting RED to pass through the mill.
He breathes patiently, silently, the cold air welcome after the time spent in the stuffy base. The sounds of the battle are muffled by snow and distance, but one sound is sharp, uncomfortably close.
The edge of the hole groans a creak and gives way beneath him.
The Sniper plummets through with a cry, but the mill blades don’t rush up to meet him, the floor remaining a stubborn several meters below.
“Wot tha...?” He cranes his neck back, movement limited, but he can catch a glimpse of his quiver, caught fast in a narrow gap in the boards of the roof. The thick strap holds him tight, uncomfortable as it digs into his chest, keeping his arms waving helplessly.
Gavin dangles in space, swearing quietly, feet swinging in the wind. He can feel one boot begin to slide free.
“Don’t you fall...”
His boot slips petulantly into the abyss. It bounces once, and catches in the sawblade, shredded to dust in mere seconds.
Defeated, the Sniper hangs silently from the ceiling, toes getting progressively colder as he waits for someone to pass by.
The Spy makes his way through the hectic bustle of early battle, skirting around the mill, but allowing the Heavy and Medic to lead the way. He hears sniper fire and cloaks, stepping around the fallen Medic. The path to the intelligence should be wide open.
The Medic goes down with a strangled howl, and the Heavy spins around, minigun falling silent. “Doctor?”
His face is ashy, leg a mess of bone fragments and blood, knee shattered. Her heart lurches uncomfortably, but she sets her weapon down, careful not to lay it in the slush of bloody snow.
“Don’t worry,” she says quietly, turning his head to one side so he can’t see his mutilated leg. “Will be fine.” Ulyana scoops him up gently, trotting back the way they’d come.
“Amelia? Need help, please!”
Hearing Uylana’s cry, Amelia leaves the Solider to the mercy of Catty and Jonah as she turns heel and runs back towards Otto and Uylana. Eyes catching a rather large puddle of bright red against the snow, she leans down and shoots the beam of healing light onto the mangled kneecap in record time. reaching out a hand, she helps Otto to his feet and gives the both of them a curt nod and grim smile.
“I think they might be slightly put-out with the way you treated Erin’s leg, Otto.”
"I'm quite certain I don't care," the Medic mumbles.He's grateful for the help, but it's still a blow to his pride. If he'd thought he'd have two snipers out for his blood, he'd have let the scotsman's sickness run its course.
"If we can advance past the mill, we'll gain the advantage," Otto says. "We'll pair up. Heavy, with me. Where's the Soldier?"
The bullet passes through the Soldier's side neatly, but isn't a fatal blow. He grunts in pain, almost losing his grip on his rocket launcher. The bleeding isn't something he can ignore, and he's a sitting duck on the roof, so he fires his last rocket at the mill window.
The recoil hits like a truck and Sarge almost falls from the catwalk. He catches the edge, dropping a shorter distance to the ground.
"Medic!" the Soldier calls, ducking behind a nearby shed.
With the BLU Medics scrambling and the Soldier no longer a serious threat, Jonah decides to take full advantage of the lull in the fighting. He didn't want to risk getting caught without ammo.
He takes the loft stairs two at a time. He kept some ammo stashed in a corner by the saw control box. He hates the saws, they're a constant distraction and dangerous to boot, the blades freely moving along their tracks. He'd shut them off, but the controls are fused shut. An errant rocket could send the blades flying through half a team. Clear sign of the Administrator's 'boredom.' It's not like the building was designed for cutting trees.
An explosion shakes the mill, sending the Sniper half tumbling down the last few stairs, landing closer to the whirring blades than he'd like. He dusts himself off and shoulders his rifle, confident the BLUs wouldn't try something for a while yet.
Jonah lands almost directly beneath his BLU counterpart, but doesn’t seem to notice the feet swinging a few meters above his head. Gavin thinks to call out to the Sniper to help free him.
And then he has a terrible idea.
In a dazzling act of contortion, the Sniper catches hold of his pocket knife, hooking the blade around the straining strap of his quiver. Patiently, patiently...
The RED passes under his feet, and Gavin rips the quiver’s strap away, plummeting to earth with a mindless, wordless battle cry.
Hearing the Soldier’s cries for help, Amelia takes off with a small nod at Uylana and Otto. She sees Sarge disappear behind a shed, a small trail of red on the snow intermixed with his footsteps. Coming up behind him, Amelia trains her Medi-gun onto his bloodied side, watching the skin seem to sew itself back together under the blue glow of the Medi-gun.
“There, that takes care of that. Otto requests we all pair up to gain the advantage if we can move past the mill. He’s with Uylana, I’ll cover you from behind, especially with Jonah and Catty up on that roof.” Her expression looks grim, but determined as she keeps her Medigun’s glowing beam on the Soldier.
Catty figures she should move on from this nest, what with the Soldier getting up and running again. She takes her weapons and supply bag with her to another spot a floor above the Intelligence room.
Along the way, she brushes against a phantom suit, feeling the rub of clothing against her shoulder but no owner to the offending sleeve. She stops dead, looking around the hallway with her hand on her gun, listening sharply for any footsteps.
When she sees and hears nothing, she brushes it off as a figment of her imagination, and walks down the hall to settle into her nest.
The Spy doesn’t let go of the breath he’s holding until the little Sniper is locked in her scope. Her back is to him, an easy kill. He reaches into his jacket.
A cigarette and a slender wooden match appear at the Sniper’s elbow and the Spy disappears back into the shadows.
Her elbow brushes against the foreign object, but as she looks at the mysterious present, the room was as empty as it was before. Not passing up on the generosity of a stranger she could guess in an instant, she sets her gun down and strikes the match again the butt of the rifle, placing the cigarette between her lips and lighting it.
"Gotta remember to thank him for that," she mumbles to herself.
The BLU Sniper lands hard, foot making a sickening crunch as it breaks Jonah’s neck under the force of gravity. “Sorry, mate,” he mutters, stepping gingerly off the prone Sniper’s throat.
The mill floor is damp on his stocking foot, which is starting to go numb with cold. For a moment, he thinks to Erin, legless and feverish. Gavin swallows thickly, toes curling.
He looks to the RED’s feet. He had two boots he wasn’t using.
The Sniper crouches, tugging at the boot. It’s stubbornly tight with rigor mortis setting in. “C’mon...Not loike you’re usin’ it...”
With a little pop the shoe comes free and Gavin pulls it on quickly. He had wider feet than Jonah did, and his toes are squashed, but it will work, at least until he can pull a new one from the supplies.
His bow has fallen a few meters away, but it’s safe, hardly scratched at all. His arrows aren’t so lucky. The few he had left are puffing through the air as sawdust and down, devoured by the mill blades. He pats down his pockets. A pocket knife, a bow, and no arrows. He’d seen worse odds.
The snow crunches under a Medic’s jackboots, and the Sniper dives for the shadows, waiting to strike.
Kurt shoos the Pyro off to guard the Intelligence -- it’s no use to try any offensive strategy at this point. While the battle is still young, he decides to make the path to the Intelligence a hellish one if he can keep everyone up and running. Now, if only the Administrator would be so kind as to provide a radio of some sort...
Taking his time to avoid the saws, he first looks up to the broken ceiling, and then to the slain Sniper. To make sure, the Medic crouches down and takes a quick check of the pulse, but the early signs of decay are already there.
“See you soon,” he says lowly, giving his fallen friend a sullen pat on the shoulder. Then, he takes a second to truly assess his situation: Jonah is dead with what appears to be a completely broken neck, and one of his shoes is missing. To top it off, a quiver hung from the splinters in the ceiling of the mill. That could only mean one person...
Slowly, he replaces the Medigun’s hose with ‘his’ saw, a Mann Co. replacement with two blades and a syringe sticking out of it intimidatingly. A bit of dried blood remains from the previous battle, and it seems to call for more.
His eyes sweep the room, having their own feral quality in their search. Trying to shut out the blatant whirring and sawing of the blades, he looks for the enemy Sniper.
Gavin keeps his back pressed into the stack of timber under the stairs as he watches the Medic pace across the mill. The German draws a cruel, double-bladed saw from his pack, eyes glinting as he prowls.
The Sniper feels a little thrill of fear as the Medic stalks close enough to touch, pent-up adrenaline crashing in his heart. Bauer turns his back, and the Sniper sees his chance. He pulls his bow free silently, springing from behind the woodpile to pounce on the Medic’s back, bowstring pulled taut against the Medic’s throat.
The RED chokes and splutters, but keeps his head. Holding his breath, his one free arm stumbles behind his back, to try and map out his attacker's chest quickly. Finding his target, Kurt braves a wild jab of the elbow to the Sniper's solar plexus, the bowstring digging more and more into his neck.
Gavin staggers back, breath knocked away, and crashes into the pile of timber. The wood clatters hollowly to the ground, nearly tripping him, but the Sniper refuses to fall alone. Instead, he tightens his hold on his makeshift garrote, fastening his legs around the Medic’s back.
He falls back on top of him with a grunt of fearful protest, trying to dig himself out of the bow's trap with gloved fingers. With the string so snug against his neck, its starting to cut into the slightly scarred flesh. All the while, he struggles to maim or get away from the lanky Australian. His saw lies a foot or so away, but with his glasses skewed and the darkness of the corner they're in, he scans for it frantically.
The Medic flails and scrambles, but can’t squirm free of the bow that’s slowly strangling him. Just a little longer...
“Wot’s wrong, Bauer?” he taunts. “Those snow days leave ya rusty?”
He’s so focused on choking the Medic that he doesn’t see the fallen saw lying within arm’s reach.
Despite the close vicinity of his saw, Kurt just falls short of the handle. His fist desperately pounds against the floor, trying to grab the weapon, but eventually his movements slow and stop completely. When the Sniper releases the bow from the Medic’s neck, it is deep violet and blue. His eyes, sharp and cunning just a moment ago, are dulled and unfocused.
The Sniper stands over the body for just a moment, a little grin of victory spreading across his face.
“No hard feelin’s, mate. Best two outta three?”
The only response is a staticy shimmer as the Medic is picked up into respawn.
Amelia darts back into the snow, leaving the Heavy and Medic to catch their breath behind the mill. Ulyana picks up her fallen gun, glancing back to the Medic. He rubs a spot of blood from his spectacles, frowning out at the rooftops.
“Sniper will still be out there,” the Heavy adds, voicing the Medic’s wordless concerns. “Get behind me, doctor!”
Not waiting for affirmation, she leaps into the snow, sending a hail of bullets over the rooftops. With the Soldier advancing across the catwalks, the Heavy stays on the ground, the mill wall and thundering minigun her only cover.
“Soldier!” she calls up, having to shout to be heard over the roar of gunfire. “Are not many REDs, can easily grab case! If you are wanting to go, will cover you!”
"Roger that," the Soldier calls, and sets off at a brisk jog, gesturing for Amelia to follow. He could have used his rocket launcher to get back up on the roof, covering the distance to the intelligence over the system of catwalks, but he doesn't want to leave the Medic behind.
They take the ground route through the woods, weaving between sheds until they can see the entrance to the RED bunker.
Sarge peers around the corner, and motions for Amelia to wait. The RED Pyro is guarding the entrance, the RED Medic is nowhere to be seen.
"I can take care of the Pyro, you keep your head down," he says, drawing his shotgun. The Soldier doesn't want to risk the RED reflecting another rocket. Amelia was more valuable, and faster. "Things go well, we make a run for the intel, they go bad, you run back to the mill."
He doesn't wait for an answer, but fires a warning shot at the door, buckshot peppering the side of the bunker.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Smokey Joe?" He pumps the shotgun, making a mental note, five shells left. "Let's settle this like men."
Amelia crouches a little behind Sarge, her Medi-gun trained onto his back. Waiting.
A blast at the door frame sends the RED Pyro a good three feet in the air out of surprise. Whipping around, she holds her home-crafted flamethrower at the ready, aiming for the direction the shots were fired from. Moving slowly forward, she gives the flamethrower an experimental click; flames shooting forward a good ten feet as she sweeps the weapon left and right slowly.
Considering the weapon that was fired, she deduces that either the Soldier or Engineer would have a shotgun at this close range; the BLU Sniper was an arquero; archer. And the Engineer was probably sitting on some turrets somewhere, so that left the BLU Soldier...
Gripping her flamethrower, the small Pyro felt half of her face break into a sweat. The BLU Soldier was a volatile man, and his rockets (while fascinating) were a something of a source of worry. Clicking off her flamethrower, the RED Pyro back steps around the entrance of the intel shed to wait out the BLU Soldier.
The Soldier throws up an arm to shield his face from the intense wave of heat, buying the Pyro time to escape. He pats out the sizzling embers on his sleeve and charges forward. The Heavy and Medic are coming up the hill. Amelia steps from her hiding spot.
“No good, cowardly REDs--hold this,” he presses the shotgun into Amelia’s hands. He swings his launcher over his shoulder and fires a rocket into the doorway. “Try running from that!”
With an insult screamed from behind, the pyro hears the rocket launcher and dives aside just as the shed is near blown to pieces and her suit sizzles on her left side; the side exposed to the blast. Patchy holes blister her skin, but she's blind to the pain. At least, that half of her body is.
The Soldier steps to one side, reloading the rocket launcher, and Ulyana spins up her minigun, charging forward to take his place. The Medigun burns hot at her back, and she casts a glance over one shoulder. The Medic is still behind her, frowning with concentration. Someone would have to be the first to step into the shed.
She nods, and the Medic drops into a crouch, Medigun whirring like an overtaxed computer. He shouts something to her, but she doesn’t hear it, roaring wordlessly as she charges into the shed, bullets flying.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the briefcase, but her focus is entirely on the scorched Pyro. She concentrates her fire on the Pyro’s legs, hoping to immobilize them before she got within range of the wicked-looking flamethrower.
Spraying flurries of flame every which-way, the pyro prances back and forth, whipping her feet around as if she were actually...dancing? Edgy as can be, she scans the decimated area, keeping the intel in her peripheral vision from the corner of her goggles. Someone's shooting at her feet, so she keeps them dancing to and fro as she hoses down the remainder of the shed with flame. But she missteps just a second too short and a bullet grazes a foot and causes the pyro to tumble to her side, where she freezes, holding the flamethrower in front of her in a stature of warning. However, the homemade machine is running out of juice.
Jonah wakes in Respawn, disoriented, static shimmering over his shirt, one hand rubbing away a phantom pain in his neck. It wasn't in the BLU Pyro's nature to kill so quickly, and the Spy'd never broken his neck before; that left his counterpart.
"Wha--And you took my boot, you bastard." He turns to leave, the dingy tiles chilly under his bare toes. He notices the Demoman sitting on the bench by the lockers.
"Erin? The hell you doin' here, mate?" he asks.
The Demoman gives a noncommittal shrug, but doesn't answer. A rattle of gunfire comes from outside.
"I gotta run--go," the Sniper corrects hastily, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He looks from Erin's missing leg, to his own bare foot. With the REDs so outnumbered this battle, Jonah doesn't expect to survive long enough for frostbite to be an issue, but...
"D’you think I could borrow your...other boot?" The words hang for a long moment. He can't bring himself to meet the Scotsman's eyes.
Erin looks off into space, a lost and anxious look on his face when Jonah makes the slip.
In the screaming chaos of new thoughts and anxiety, he thinks, ‘It’ll help the team’ but right now, he doesn’t know what even he wants. His hand slowly descends to his side as his leg raises up. The lace comes undone, guided by a mind of incomprehensible noise.
He imagines the boot sliding off, clunking to the floor for the Sniper to retrieve, but it doesn’t. It stays put and he curls up on the bench. Knees...knee held to his chest.
The Sniper reaches uncertainly for the boot, but stops himself, guilt tying his stomach in knots. “Fuck it,” he says, pulling off his own shoe and tossing it aside. It hits the wall with a bang. The Sniper steps around a pile of broken glass to the respawn exit. The door flies open to show a crowd of four BLUs assaulting the intelligence bunker.
“Shit,” The Sniper mutters, unslinging his rifle. Quick as he can, he runs to a nearby ladder , climbing to the roof. He crouches behind a short wall, brushing slush from his feet. His toes are almost completely numb. He shivers, but rests his rifle on the top of the wall, taking careful aim.
Through his scope, he watches the Heavy rush into the doorway, and it’s too late to take a shot. The way he figured, the BLU Medics weren’t that big a threat on their own. Their Soldier was another matter entirely.
The Sniper gently squeezes the trigger.
The bullet goes low, hitting the Soldier in the shoulder. He cries out, losing his grip on the rocket launcher, staggering sideways into the wall of the bunker. A hand flies to his arm, burning white-hot. He swallows his pain and draws his shotgun with shaking hands as he scans the rooftops.
“Sniper’s respawned, take cover!” he shouts to his teammates. The Soldier knows he couldn’t support the weight of the large launcher, but doesn’t want to be defenseless.
Amelia, crouched back behind the soldier once more, aims her medi-gun and trains it’s glow onto the soldiers wound. Attempting to heal it as fast as possible, she curses under her breath as the snipers gun hovers overhead.
Meanwhile, the younger Sniper strides across the catwalk quickly, setting up over the Intelligence Room. “What a mess,” she mutters, taking another drag of her dying cigarette. She focuses in the scope, looking for a shot, eventually aiming for the Heavy.
She takes the shot, and a passing glance to her teacher and friend proves that either someone stole his boots or he’s a complete idiot.
“The fuck’re your shoes, man?” She says over the occasional gunfire.
“Long story,” Jonah growls, ducking to reload. “But if I catch sight of that rotten Robin Hood wannabe, I’m gonna put a bullet in him.”
The Pyro whips the little shed into a blistering, screeching inferno, and the Heavy gulps down one last cool breath before the room is engulfed. She sees the Pyro stumble, the flames flicker, and then all she can see is thick black smoke as the damp wood catches.
Coughing, Ulyana steps back, slipping in the slushy doorway. She hears the report of a rifle and then her knees hitting the ground as the bullet shears through her calf. Her sharp cry turns into a roar of fury as her leg crumples uselessly beneath her. She can see the older Medic trying to move forward, but he’s trapped by the zinging bullets of an unseen revolver, amputation knife clenched tight as he waits for an opening.
The fire stutters again, lapping at the walls, and Ulyana clenches her teeth. The Pyro was running out of options.
Ulyana gets to her feet, weight braced against the doorframe as the minigun thunders death into the flames.
When the Medic respawns, he’s absolutely livid. Seething, bitter, incensed, every single synonym for angry that could ever be found in a thesaurus could describe how he felt right this moment. He wants to disassemble the entire BLU team with his bare hands, but sobers slightly when he sees Erin. He doesn’t speak to his friend, but instead gives him a blanket and a bottle of gin he had stowed in the bottom of his footlocker. “I’ll be back. Don’t get too drunk, alright?”
Shouldering the Medigun properly, he fixes its hose and steps outside, striding with a new purpose: defend the Intelligence, and kill that bastard of a BLU Sniper.
He can hear the commotion from around the Intelligence Room, but he’s only able to make so far as behind the desk before the Heavy and Soldier catch on and start firing. He ducks behind the unreasonably sturdy desk for cover, taking out his pistol and listening carefully for the crack of Sniper fire. Occasionally, his head would appear, and he would brave a shot, but he found that this method wasn’t working out too well for him. To make it worse, he only has two more barrels worth of a six slot pistol: at this rate, he’s going to die sooner than later. However, he spots the Pyro: if he can get to her, there may be a chance of a push back.
As silent as ever, but now alive with desperation, the Pyro struggles back to her feet, but stumbles and hits the ground once more, keeping her flamethrower in front of her like a shield, even if it was more useless than helpful due to its bulk. She clicks it off trying to conserve fuel and spotting Kurt as she does so. Motioning to him, she crawls forward slightly, flamethrower raised slightly in case of any BLUs. If he could get over to her, they’d have a good chance of turning this back into their own favor.
He looks her in the eye, a silent plan formulating in his mind. Nodding to her quickly, he peeks over the edge of the desk to map his surroundings, and takes off towards her in a semi-crouched run.
The mill falls quiet. Gavin looks to the rafters, his quiver is still waving in the breeze, caught on a nail. It looked like he’d have to brave the treacherous rooftop once again. He shoulders his bow and scrambles up the steps, inching towards the splintered hole in the roofing. The wood gives a groan and he slides back, clutching his bow to keep it from falling into the mill blades.
“C’mon ya stupid...”
Fingertips straining, the Sniper reaches out as far as gravity allows, hooking a single finger into the loop of the quiver. He pulls it free, rolling clear of the hole. A tuft of striped feather pokes from the top, and Gavin pulls free the single remaining arrow.
He peeks over the roof edge at the battle below. He can see the two BLU Medics pinned around a corner; the Heavy is busy firing into the intelligence shed, trying to clear the path for the bloodied Soldier.
The RED Medic makes a break across the clearing, Medigun blazing. The Sniper draws himself up, leading the Medic like a deer. He doesn’t need a headshot, an arrow through the lungs will drop the other man just as quickly.
He breathes out, letting the arrow fly.
The Sniper hits his mark, the Medic realizes with chilling terror, falling to the ground a few steps away from the Pyro. He dies curled around his wound, one hand extending towards her.
It's safe to say that he will be just as livid as before when he respawns.
“Heavy,” Otto calls, “Get out of the line of fire.” He slips the amputation knife back into his belt. He trains the beam of the Medigun on his Ulyana, mending her wounds, soothing blistering burns.”Soldier, los--go!”
“One side, Ruski,” the Soldier says, reloading his shotgun. He gives Amelia a nod, rushing past the Heavy and into the bunker.
He finds the Pyro curled on his side over a wounded leg, hardly so threatening as he was before, the vicious flamethrower barely puttering smoke. The Pyro waves it threateningly, threats lost through the gas mask filter.
The Soldier steps around the RED and picks up the briefcase. It’s heavier than it looks. Over the loudspeaker, the Administrator’s voice blares, “The Enemy has taken your Intelligence.”
In a moment of desperation, the wounded Pyro grabs onto his boot, but the Soldier swings the butt of his shotgun down into the Pyro’s ribs. The RED lets go with a high-pitched whine.
Sarge unclips a grenade from his bandolier, pulling the pin. He waits until he’s at the door before tossing it over his shoulder, into the Intelligence room.
“Semper fi, RED scum.”
The Soldier hurries to get out of the explosion’s range. Amelia looks at him, perplexed, but he grabs her arm and runs, closely followed by the the other two BLUs.
The explosion rocks the field, the power of the grenade amplified by the enclosed space of the bunker. Fire spouts from the doorway, singing the loose papers from the briefcase, sending them drifting like ashen snowflakes. The doorway is billowing with enough dark smoke to cover their escape.
The Soldier pulls Amelia to her feet. “Let’s go, Doc.”
