re-posting this. Figured this time around I will give a summary of what this is about. I tried writing this as if the reader had never encountered TF2 before (except maybe the prologue, but it was meant to be vague), concentrating on character development and explanations for the technology available to the team. This story is thus taking place right on the cusp of solidifying the current team's roster and the finalization of the Respawn technology. Mixed in with a touch of horror and a suspense. I will be posting all finished chapters here, but if you are like my clan-mates and want the chapters as fast as I write them (edited before upload, but minus the grammar-Nazi's final tweeks) the chapters will be uploaded here: www.themagee.com Hope you have a fun read. ------ Looks like I have to post it in pieces.
“Vake up! Zum Donnerwetter! Vake up!†Blood: his lab coat was drenched in it, his thick red latex gloves stiff and sticky with it – both wet red and dry brown. Without thinking he was smearing the tacky mess across a large man’s bare chest as he slammed his fists into him, yelling. He was momentarily shocked to find blood on the man before realizing the state of his gloves. Panting, he continued to beat on the massive man, pinching his nail bed and yelling into his ear. The blood was neither the naked man’s, nor his if he remembered correctly. All things considered, he could not recall whose blood it actually was – probably a little bit of everyone’s. “Medic.†The southern drawl was soft from the distance, calling out to the man from across the pine paneled room. “Medic, stop it.†Medic turned toward the voice. The second half of the room was filled with gurneys, a few housing members of his team as they received treatment from under the vivescence machines. Providing a slow healing process, the device’s shimmering seroplasm tendrils fed into the bodies, mending the wounds and surgeries they had just endured. The southern drawl had come from one of the men under the vivescence device, his shirt and overalls hanging off his squat torso, the fabric cut and covered in blood. A thick, already soiled strip of gauze was taped across his abdomen, collecting the discharge from his wound. “Herr Engineer, get ovah here, maybe somezing is vrong vith ze machine.†Medic beckoned the wounded man, his jackboots clipping sharply across the uneven floor as he wound his way around a large tank reminiscent of an iron lung. Medic turned back to Engineer, his patience thinning. “Beeile dich, Herr Engineer! Heavy has very little time!†Sighing, Engineer eased himself off the dirty gurney, his movements stiff with pain. “Doc… Ya’ know there’s nothing wrong with it.†“Fess!†Turning knobs, yanking on levers, and rebooting circuit cartridges did little but enrage Medic further. This was the third casualty in the past month. Same symptoms, same diagnosis. Grade 1 coma across the Glasgow board: no eye movement, no verbal response, no motor response, not even to pain – not a single blasted reaction. Just the peculiar symptom that every failed Respawn displayed: open eyes. Staring, blank, hollow, souless; looking at nothing, and yet always focused on Medic. Diagnosis: never to wake, clinically brain-dead, lost in the void, killed while on duty. Dead. Deceased. Call it. Thirty years of intensive research and he still could not keep them from dying; still having to call out the time of death. Medic shook the tank. “Zere must be! Zis should have vorked. Vhat am I doing vrong?†Engineer eased up behind him, resting a hand on Medic’s lower back – he couldn’t reach the doctor’s shoulder. “Maybe… it was just his time to go, Doc.†Medic’s nostrils flared as his spun to face Engineer. This topic was not allowed. Engineer knew this. “I am vell avare of your beliefs, Herr Engineer, and you know zat I do not share zem.†Not openly. Never. There is no soul in science. The shift of awareness looked like a soul switching bodies, yes, but… but it was not. Consciousness was a product of the cerebroites – existing in only one body at a time because of a biological limitation. Not a soul. Memories were stored within the paired memecolousid in the partition above the tank, feeding memories into the clone as it matured. Memecolousids should thrive in this cold environment, so memory transfer should not be the problem. Clone after clone had received the same treatment: the same external environment, the same nutrients, the same electro-stimulation, and had awoken without complication, as if from a simple afternoon nap. But always there was one, one time when the consciousness refused to connect, when the awareness failed to shift hosts. Now he might as well have a corpse in the tank for all the good a Heavy without a mind did. He had failed. Again. “Doc.†“Nein, I vill not listen to et! Three! Three in less zhan a month!†Medic absentmindedly ran his bloodied hands through his hair. “Zere must be something vrong vith ze clones…. or ze memecolousids, or maybe ze cerebroites. I should check ze dendrite saturations, and ze cerebrotie solution. Maybe ze memecolousid’s diet est inefficient-†As he continued his rant, Engineer gently led the doctor to his desk, urging him to sit. Flimsy red plastic cradled Medic’s hips as he sat, the cheap metal legs creaking from the cold. His desk was frigid steel, every inch of it covered in vials and papers. Still mumbling chemical formulas, he tore off his round Windsor glasses, throwing them against his medical bag. He lowered his head onto the cold hard surface of his metal desk, relishing in the chill it emanated onto his hot forehead. He had been getting so many headaches lately. “It’s okay, Doc. You did your best.†“My best?†Medic’s head shot up. “I bring people back from zhe dead! My best es life, und zat es not et!†He jabbed his hand at Heavy. The tank was still partially filled with the nutrient solution, steaming in the cold air as ice crystals started to frost Heavy’s pale flesh. As if in response, a low, ghostly moan rattled his desk. Medic rose from his chair and darted towards the tank. After a few moments of staring down at a small computer screen above the cloning vat, Medic went back to his desk, snapped open his bag, and retrieved a vile and a large needle. Extracting 30cc of fluid, he rushed back and inserted the needle into an unseen hole within the machinery. Nodding to himself, he watched the dials and graphs click and quiver on the screen. The moan returned as a low, ethereal coo that resonated with Medic’s very core. Satisfied, he faced Heavy, slapping him hard across his thick, bearded face. The body shook from the force, his cheeks flushed with the increased blood flow. Yet, there was nothing. No fluttering of the eyelids, no grunt from the pain. Nothing. With an angry sigh, Medic returned to his desk and dropped heavily into his chair. Slumped shoulders and chin drawn, he glowered at the papers on his desk. Engineer’s heavy hand was on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Doc. He was a good man, and he’ll be missed, but he’s at peace now, one way or another. Let’s send him home.†“Home?†Medic choked on a sigh. “He vas Canadian, you know? From here, Yukon. He vould not… he did not mind ze cold.†Engineer nodded, his expression both grave and sympathetic. He knew exactly what Medic needed. “Don’t worry about dealing with him now, Doc. Go wash up.†Medic looked down at his ghastly lab coat and nearly laughed; the noise his throat made sounding more like a mad giggling snort. Rising from his chair, he snapped off his gloves, tossing them into a blood splattered bio-hazard bin by his desk. A wash basin and a mirror stood against the same wall his desk was adjacent to, a Franklin stove puffing alongside heating a pot of water.
Medic immediately stripped off his soiled clothes, suddenly disgusted with himself for wearing them for so long. Two lab coats, both saturated in blood, a thermal long-sleeved shirt and a sweat soaked A-shirt were tossed into the hamper. Unable to take off his dress pants, he dipped a bleached white cloth into the stock pot and used it to wipe down the front of his pants and the tops of his boots, his suspenders hanging loose and brushing up against his thighs. Looking into the mirror, he nearly blanched at the sight of his hair, marred with blood. Filling the basin, he lathered a fresh cloth with soap and scrubbed bare his hands, chest, arms, face and hair until he was pink. He cringed at the thought of the filth gathering under his fingernails; he would have to take a file to them later. Cleansed, he put on fresh clothes, layered for warmth, and returned to the mirror. A quick comb through with the pomade and a splash of cologne made him feel human again – his cleansing ritual was almost complete. A shower and a shave were still in order, but they would have to wait – he had a lethal injection to administer and team mates to attend to. Engineer was back under the vivescence instrument, fiddling with the gauze on his abdomen. Shame suddenly came over Medic: he should not have left his patients alone for so long. Engineer’s internal scar tissue alone could cause serious complications if not sufficiently stretched during healing. Medic hurried towards Engineer, grabbing up his glasses off his desk as he passed. “’ere, let me get zat for -†The door to the improvised infirmary slammed open, bringing forth a burst of cold air and snow. Medic involuntarily dove back behind his desk, scrambling within its drawers for his makeshift tranquilizer gun. It was rare for soldiers to attack an infirmary; for BLU, however, it was not unheard of. Medic prepared for the worse. “We won! We gave ‘em a bloody drubin’!†Medic popped up his head at the sound of the familiar voice. “Herr Sniper, you…you… Du Dussel!†he spat, rising from the floor. “Wot?†Sniper said, confused. The bushman was filthy. Blood, snow, dirt: it was hard to figure out where the forest camouflage ended and the mess began. “Did we get em all?†Engineer asked, ending the confrontation before it had time to start. “Yeh! Demo is blasting their base sky high right now!†As if on cue, a low rumbling shook the foundations of the rickety lodge. “Yeh better tell ‘m to stop. We are on a mountain – he could cause an avalanche,†Engineer added seriously, still too weak to get truly piqued. Sniper cringed. “Oh, yah, shit. Uh, be right back.†He turned on his heels, his thin frame stiff as he ran. “Dummkoph,†Medic grumbled, marching back towards Engineer. “Now, Herr Engineer, vere you stretching ze vound as it vas healing?†“Yeh, been stabbed in the gut enough to figure that one out, Doc.†“Oi!†Sniper once again busted through the infirmary door. “Vhat now!?†“You gotta come and see this, quick! Truckie, bring your gear!†Sniper ran back into the cold. Medic and Engineer exchanged glances before following suit – Engineer throwing on his sweater and sliced up jacket while Medic grabbed Engineer’s tool-box. They both ran after Sniper, Medic’s long strides gradually gaining on Sniper’s lead as Engineer tried to keep up. In the distance Medic caught the silhouettes of his team between the curtains of wet snow. Despite the blizzard, he could make out the lank form of Sniper rushing up and leaning over the squat form of Demoman. Beside the two, a smaller, almost delicate shadow huddled against the sheer rocky bluff, trying to a light a cigarette with a flickering lighter – it must have been Spy. All three were clustered together, examining the rock wall where a fresh gunpowder stain remained from what must have been a substantial blast; whatever they were looking at, Medic could not see, for snow and bodies were in the way. “Vhat are you Schweinehunds eyeballing at?†Medic huffed, squeezing himself between Sniper and Spy. “Zis better not be…†He trailed off, lowering Engineer’s tools to the snow. Before him stood a giant metal door, partially camouflaged into the rock wall – it was visible only where Demoman’s explosives had blown off the facade. If not for Demoman’s incessant and drunken tomfoolery, they might have not found the door at all. “Aye, that’s a secret door alright,†Demoman laughed, his breath coming out in great puffs of condensation. “This must be wot those BLU bastards were tryin’ teh hide.†“Vhat es et? Open et.†“I dun and tried, Doc. It’s bloody blast-proof. At least enough that anythin’ that would work would most likely bring down the whole bloody mountain on our ‘eads!†“That is why I sent for Engineer. I trust he is patched up, Docteur?†Spy’s silken voice was only slightly marred by the chattering of his teeth. “Ja, ja. Soldier too…†Medic grunted, figuring now was as good a time as any to break the news. “Heavy is dead.†“Oh, no…,†Demoman said, his face stricken. Sniper too made a sound of grief, doffing his hat in respect. Spy’s composure remained unperturbed. He met Medic’s eyes, purposely breaking contact to scan Medic’s pristine clothes – a glare with a statement. “Another one.†“Ja, another one!†Medic felt his face redden with the rush of adrenaline his anger always brought him. He turned his back on Spy and stormed off towards the infirmary, yelling into the wind, “I do not care about zis door until et es opened! Do not bother me!†“I’m reporting to headquarters,†Spy shouted back, his voice muffled by the howling wind. “Is there anything you would like to add, Docteur?†Medic stopped in his tracks, exhaling noisily. He turned to face Spy, his thick lab coat snapping in the gale, his glasses riming. “Get me an assistant! One zat actually knows how to to use a scalpel!†he called back, Engineer giving him a curious glance as he hobbled past. “Someone who can help me vith zis Respawn! I am tired of doing everyzing myself!†“I will do my best, mon ami. But you know the rules.â€
“Get me an assistant! One zat actually knows how to to use a scalpel!â€â€ ~Medic The afternoon dazzled over England’s prized city- not a cloud in the sky, nor an uncomfortable breeze. Normally a day he would thoroughly have enjoyed – alas, work came before cool autumn air and hot sun. Hence he stood, dutifully in a pool of darkness deep beneath the city, subjected to the nauseating view of aged tile walls, bleeding dark spongy mildew onto cracked floors. Every tile was slick with stagnant water, weakly reflecting an ashen glare from the single florescent light dangling above. Behind the lone man a massive gunmetal grey train loomed, swallowing him within its shadow, the engines cold. The air was a miasma of fetid rank that tasted of mould and rats, so thick that one could practically see it heave in the flickering light. Standing there, the man could almost feel the stench permeating his pinstriped suit, settling up against his skin with the chill moisture. Now he would have to dry-clean his suit. With a shiver, he shifted his weight and pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket. Popping it open and spotting the time, he cleared his throat. “Fais chierâ€. He had been waiting here for over an hour, the constant drip of water – and its eroding properties – grating on his nerves. Usually he was a patient man patient like a plaster saint, as the saying went – but such persistence could only sustain a man for so long. Time seemed to drag when one was forced to stand under a mile of rock that was incessantly bombed during the world war. How long had it been since the war, he wondered, the sudden realization of time taking hold. He took a tiny electronic day planner from the inner pocket of his overcoat. It was 1965. Had it really been so long ago? The man’s demeanour visibly sagged. Twenty years. That would mean he was now past fifty. Fifty-five years old and still a spy for Reliable Explosions and Demolitions – still loyal to the famous RED logo; what a dedicated employee he must be. He looked down at his gloved hands, firm arms, legs, and body, and laughed darkly. The body, tall and lean, housed his soul, possessing a wiry strength someone his age should not. But this was not his body, not really. This body was young, younger than he was at the end of the war, younger than when he was as a double agent in France – but his soul? His soul was old. There was something to be said of the pseudo-physical effects of the mind. He knew he was old; hell, he felt even older, and it demanded to be shown. Despite his body’s age, there were visible signs of premature ageing. Under his balaclava, his soft coppery hair was already lined with a ring of silver, his grey eyes were sunken, and hard lines had begun to pull at the corners of his thinning lips. His joints creaked, his legs stiffened easily, and his back ached. To top it off, his lungs were already riddled with the early onset of cancer. His team’s Medic claimed it was the side effects of his so labelled “Respawn†process, something about the cells not having the same length of… tillerimers? or something of a similar name, as the cells of a truly young individual. Medic also claimed that smoking was most likely a contributing factor – but what did it matter? What was death to him? He would not deny himself his vices simply to remain younger longer. Resolute, he slipped his hand into another coat pocket, puling out an ornate silver cigarette case. Flipping the case open he cleared his throat, aware of the viscous fluid in his lungs heaving in response. Of the eighteen cigarettes he had come with, he had seven left. He lit up and inhaled deeply, the warmth of the tobacco momentarily taking off the edge of the chill he was starting to feel as the rush of nicotine eased the claustrophobia. He was just starting to enjoy the aroma when there was a sudden flutter of pain within his lungs. The pain started as a sharp stab from the lower left, branching out in a fluctuating web as it took hold of his air. He repressed the cough, like many times before, holding in the thick, diseased fluids. A lesser man might have allowed himself the pleasure of expelling the excess phlegm into a handkerchief, but not he. He was a gentlemen rogue after all, and a cough could give away his true identity if he was…working. With a shuddering breath he forced his lungs to expand, ignoring the pain. He then smiled to himself, his lips thinning into a bleak grin. His true identity? Ha. His identity was a game, a game he grew tired of years ago yet continued to play. And such a despicable game it was. His enemies were his close companions, friends long enough for him to watch the light of their wide and confused eyes dim in recognized betrayal as they died. Those who he could call friends were more akin to strangers, acquaintances who only trusted him enough to finish the job asked of him. And his lovers? Well, they were all destroyed by his lies and unfulfilled expectations; he crushed their desires, dashed their hopes, and ruined their dreams. This man no longer had a “true†identity. He only had the one, the false one he chose to embody wholeheartedly: Spy. Once he had tried to live a normal life – wife, kids, a reeking dog – and yet despite his honest efforts, that life was merely another mask he wore. Through the war, and his employment, he has been a spy longer than he had ever been ‘himself’. It had become his name, his only vestige of identity. He was Spy. It was a sobering and depressing thought. Spy took another long drag of cigarette, this time enjoying the sweet, woody aroma. “C’est la vie,†he breathed. It was far too late to change now. With a flick of the wrist and a flourish of the hand, he tossed the butt into the shadows and drew another cigarette between his lips. Reaching for his lighter, he caught the distant echo of a rattling clunk, metal wheels over stone cracks. Faint at first, growing louder and more raucous, the thud of wheels drew closer to the double doors Spy was facing, accompanied by the soft pattering of foot steps. Finally, Spy thought, adjusting his fedora: he had arrived. Behind the rattled, and between the incessant trickling of water, Spy caught the muffled snatches of an obviously heated argument. “Qu’es que c’est?†Spy listened: the argument consisted of two men, with the shuffling footsteps of at least two others close behind. Spy knew that the person he was waiting for would be accompanied by a member from RED, maybe a police officer, but not a party of this size. This transfer was supposed to be a covert operation, after all. What could they be quarrelling about? Spy was not about to move from his position, however. Appearances were important, first impressions more so, and bending to his curiosity would be childish and imprudent. Their argument meant nothing to him, nor did it impact his reason for being in London. He waited, emotionless and unmoving, his chin slightly elevated, accentuating his regal European nose. “– I highly doubt your farce of a science ‘as anything to do with William’s recovery.†There was a booming twin thump as two men charged through the double doors, each red in the face from a mixture of heated debate and walking the distance to Spy’s secluded location. “How dare you!†the other man retorted. “It’s rather presumptuous of you to assume my incompetence when your practice is barely above human butchery!†He pointed accusingly at his attacker with an overstuffed manila envelope.
The accosted man was shorter than his accuser, but twice his girth and wearing an impressively white lab coat, which contrasted with the thinner man’s dark tweed overcoat. Both stood off to the sides, holding their respective door ajar for the rest of their group to enter. First to waltz in was a well dressed man looking as if he had not a care in the world as he pushed a wide wooden crate on a dolly. Spy recognized this man, it was Bruce: RED’s number one operate when it came to retrievals and exports across Europe. Further behind him, partially concealed in shadow, was a very bored and disgruntled looking nurse wheeling in what appeared to be a lumpy white sheet on an upright gurney. Upon closer inspection of the sheet, the corners of Spy’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Gentlemen,†Spy’s voice rang clear across the room. The power of the otherwise polite interruption silenced the two bickering men. Spy casually placed his hands in his pockets and took a deliberate step forward. “If you would be so kind as to explain yourselves and the condition of my new colleague? We have a schedule to meet, and you have wasted enough of my time.†“Wasted your time?†the corpulent man bellowed incredulously. “Sir, this ridiculous contract your company made with my patient should have never taken place! I demand you remedy this situation right now!†“You forget your manners and your common sense, Dr. Welsh,†the thin man in tweed chided. “Please forgive our pitiful display, Sir.†He adjusted his bowler cap with a significant glace towards the hatless Dr. Welsh. “I am Doctor Keith Jayden, a surgeon and professor at Oxford. And this is Doctor Welsh, a psychiatrist-“ “William’s psychiatrist,†Welsh interjected, “from the esteemed Bethlem Royal Hospital.†“You may call me Spy, both name and profession†Spy replied, nodding to each of the doctors in turn before walking past them toward the nurse and his charge. Startled by Spy’s sudden purposeful strut, the nurse backed away from the gurney he was leaning against. What he had originally thought was an object under the sheet was actually a man with a wool blanket in a Geri-chair – specifically one used for transporting institutionalized patients. Suspecting more was at play, Spy grabbed the blanket and whisked it off. Startled, the man beneath the blanket twitched groggily, straining against a tight fitting straitjacket. His knees knocked against the arms of his chair – his thighs and calves strapped together with locking leather Posey cuffs. The slight movement rattled the chains that interlaced between the arms of the straitjacket and the cuffs around his legs. The chains were fastened together with heavy duty padlocks. His chest and pelvis were also fixed firmly to the chair with multiple restraints, and padlocked. Heavily sedated, he burbled as he settled, breathing heavily into a black restraint mask that was belted around his head. Spy could not get a good look at his face. What was not covered by the leather mask was concealed behind bedraggled platinum hair, clinging to his forehead with sweat. With a delicate touch, Spy parted the mass. Puckered pink flesh, remains of an old burn scar, whorled up the side of his face, gouging the skin and exposing the white of his left eye. The description fit, if not the state: this was the man whom Spy had come to escort back to their base in the Americas. “Is my colleague in need of immediate medical attention?†Spy asked, not bothering to look at the doctors now behind him. “No,†Dr. Jayden replied. Dr. Welsh sputtered indignantly at the other doctor. “What?! William is definitely in need of medical attention!†“Do not use his real name,†Spy said calmly, with just a hint of steel. “Call him Pyro, it is now both his name and profession.†“William is mentally ill!†Welsh snapped. Spy could hear him beating the thick manila envelope against his palm like he was trying to hammer in a nail. “Sir – please,†Spy began. “He has a serious case of psychosis!†Welsh continued. “Numerous suppressed memories, unexplained visual and verbal stimming-†“Sir-†“Uncontrolled aggression, death fantasies -†Ignoring the doctor, Spy stood silent as he watched Pyro breathe. The man stirred, lifting his head up weakly and pathetically trying to shake the hair out of his face. More so sensing his presence that actually seeing him, Pyro stared at him and rasped something. Mon dieu, those eyes! They were Mediterranean eyes, both of colour and form. The left eye was damaged, the pupil a pinhead in a pool of Nile blue, cradled between ragged, burned flesh. His right eye was dilated and thus darker in colour, framed between tender folds of pale flesh. The discrepancy between them added a near-comical effect in conjunction with his attire and mumbling – he truly looked the part of a madman. “- multiple accounts of psychoses-induced pyromania, the last of which got him tried for eight counts of murder!†Welsh’s shrill exclamation drew Spy back into reality. “This man needs therapy, not a career change that encourages his disorder,†the psychiatrist gasped, finally coming up for air. “Nothing you say now is going to change anything.†Spy replied, picking a stray piece of lint off his suit. “He signed the contract with RED and is now employed as a Pyrotechnician. If you have any complaints, you may write to RED Headquarters.†“I refuse to play into this game of corporate war,†he spat back. “I assure you, Monsieur,†Spy exhaled, crushing the butt of his cigarette with his heel as he turned to face the psychiatrist. “This is not a game.†When the psychiatrist finally blanched under his cold stare, Spy turned his attention to the surgeon. “What say you, Dr. Jayden? Why would Pyro need a surgeon here?†Jayden was silent for a moment as he carefully met Spy’s eyes. “He is a dear friend,†he answered. “I don’t want to see him go as much as I don’t want this quack of a doctor torturing him.†He looked towards Pyro, his face stricken in sadness. “While I don’t like this arrangement RED has made, I respect his desire for a second chance.†Spy watched as the surgeon walked up to Pyro and tenderly brushed back Pyro’s dishevelled hair. “Good man,†Spy said. “And how did you… discover the particulars of his arrangement with RED?†“I was there, visiting him. He wanted me to come along.†“Ah. Well, Bruce.†Spy turned towards the other man present, the one with the large wooden crate. “I expect you were able to acquire Pyro’s equipment?†Bruce grinned, his round face creasing in sly merriment. “Naturally. Scuffers are easily bought. Got this lot right from the evidence room.†He gestured towards the large crate. “And it’s a beaut. This kid must have been some type of genius, from what I’ve heard the goop it shoots sticks on ya’ like that fancy new glue they got out now. Want me to haul it on the train, then?†“At your pleasure, Bruce.†Spy turned towards the nurse. “Now, bunny, care to help Pyro onto the train and release him from these unsightly chains?†“Aigh…†the nurse quivered. “But I have to leave the cuffs on, and uh, chained together. Like the police told me to. You can release ‘em once he’s out of England. It’s what they said, anyway.†Fumbling with a large ring of keys, the nurse promptly started to release Pyro from the restraints. “Now wait a minute!†Welsh interrupted, yet again. Spy was beginning to grow tired of this fat little man. “No,†Spy returned, and flicked his butterfly knife around his hand. “I suggest you leave this place before I ensure that the puddings you no doubt enjoy dribble out of a hole in your guts.†The psychiatrist’s face turned an unsightly shade of red, preparing to explode. Bruce’s timely return seemed to change the doctor’s mind, however.
Dr. Welsh’s eyes darted between Spy and Bruce. With a forced sigh, the psychiatrist held out the manila envelope. He finally came to the realization that he was not going to win against Spy in a battle of will. “You have a doctor on your base, yes?†Dr. Welsh’s belligerence slid into a plea. “Please, take this and give it to him. Make sure you watch William at all times. Don’t leave him to his own devices, for God’s sake, he is extremely unstable. Continue the medication, and don’t… well it’s all in there.†He seemed almost deflated in defeat, arms hanging limply at his sides. “We were so close to finding out what caused his outbursts…†Spy took the thick envelope. It was even heavier than it appeared. “It shall be done.†He gestured to Bruce and the nurse. “If you would kindly wheel Pyro to the train and make sure he is comfortable, I would be much obliged.†“Sure thing, boss.†With an effortless heave, the Pyro was out of his chair and slumped over Bruce’s shoulders, being carried off towards the train. The nurse stood impressed – judging by his size, Pyro was most likely a fairly heavy individual, particularly in his inebriated state. With a few quiet farewells Spy was unable to overhear, Jayden, Welsh, and the unnamed nurse were ushered out by Bruce. Calmly waiting outside the train, Spy stood by until their voices petered out into silence. Lighting another cigarette, Spy examined the envelope and, with a quick flick of his thumb, traced the edge of it with his lighter, momentarily filling the room with a warm glow. Satisfied, Spy boarded the train and signalled the train driver. The train lazily reversed itself out of the unused station, leaving behind a smouldering pile of black ash upon the fractured tiles. “Sa peu se montrer interessant.â€
Chapter 2 “This could present itself to be interesting†~Spy --------- With the icy slowness of a great snake, dark grey clouds slid between the intertwining mountain ridges of Canada’s northernmost cordillera, coming to nest within a hidden hanging valley. Clinched by the towering mountains, a jack pine forest filled the hollow, their branches heavy with deadening snow. A rail line scored the land throughout the still wilderness, winding up along thin mountain passes before borrowing through an exposed arête into the elevated basin. Hidden by the dense wood, the tracks came to a stop at the base of an immense cliff, where nestled within the rock-face was the hidden entrance to a Builder’s League United research facility. BLU: RED’s direct and only true competitor. Huddled together in small groups against poorly built barricades, members of RED’s mercenary unit stood by the tracks, waiting. Nearby, unlit and blanketed in a week’s worth of snow, the remnants of a hastily built RED base stood alongside them. Mirroring this was another BLU construction, similar in function but with a more industrial style of architecture. Frozen and bleak, the BLU base was thoroughly destroyed; the steep metal roofs caved in and filled with snow. There was not a whisper of wind, but that did not stop the freezing chill from slithering between the gaps in RED Sniper’s winter camo vest. Snorting, Sniper roused himself from his woodpile nap against the RED base. Struggling with his sleeve, he checked his watch. Was it really that late? What was the hold up? With a pained groan Sniper climbed out of his niche on the covered porch of their base and looked around blearily. Slouched against a crate to his left, Demoman drank greedily from a whiskey bottle, his dark skin and black flak jacket sticking out in stark contrast to the white mountains behind him. Across from him, Soldier’s stocky frame was uncomfortably perched on an ammunition box, his monstrous jaw jutting out to the side as he scrutinized an Othello board. Judging by Demoman’s teeter and Soldier’s drunk grumbling, they had been at the game for some time now. Sniper decided that he did not want the company of the drunken Scottish Cyclops, nor his equally intoxicated, idiotic, all American Patriot companion. Sniper turned to look for the other members of his team. Further ahead of him near the tracks, Medic was standing by a flickering, and very alluring, barrel fire. Grabbing some logs from the pile, Sniper sauntered over. Hopefully the stuffed shirt would prove to be better company than the drunks. “Afternoon, Doc,†Sniper greeted, dumping the logs into the barrel. “How’s the cave?†Medic did not reply. The strong-jawed German was staring at something past the mountain horizon, once again lost in his own thoughts. After all these years of working together, what could that boxhead possibly still be thinking about that could not be shared? Sniper coughed suggestively. Still no reply from Medic. Whatever was on his mind, it was starting to wear away at the doctor. To the Sniper he looked positively knackered; his pallid features drawn tight against the bones of his face, his taciturn eyes shadowed by dark circles. A good day’s worth of stubble highlighted his sharp cheekbones and his hair was barley slicked back, even though it was starting to get long enough to curl. It was quite unlike his usual persnickety facade Sniper was used to dealing with. And yet, even through his exhaustion and wear, he remained obstinate and cold. The only warm feature the man possessed was his hair. Parted at the side, strands of it broke loose from its Brylcreem hold and trickled down his forehead, dark, like coffee, with splashes of white at his temples, like cream. Huh, coffee sounded bloody fantastic right now. Popping open his hip pack Sniper grabbed his red thermos, fumbled with the cap, and took a mouthful of the hot, near black liquid. “Wanna swig?†he offered the canister to Medic. “Nein, danke…†Shrugging, Sniper slipped a cigarette between his lips with his other hand. Now that Sniper thought about it, Medic had probably grown his hair just to piss off Solider – perhaps started after that weird argument they had about hair products. Don’t think Solly ever got over losing the argument. That rabid mongrel has a collection of Guns and Haircuts Magazine for Pete’s sake. Why is nearly everyone on this team bloody bonkers? Was it something in the water? The food? Bah. Through his golden shades, Sniper continued to sneak glances at the Medic. Medic did not look to be half as cold as Sniper felt. He was standing in that back aching, imperious posture of his. The thick wool under-padding he wore to fend off the cold broadened his shoulders and thickened his torso, exemplifying his build. Despite his five o’clock shadow, it was like looking at a Nazi recruitment poster. Bloody krauts. Sucking in the warmth Sniper took a long drag of his cigarette, purposefully exhaling towards the Medic. He watched as the thick plumes of smoke and breath sluggishly encircled Medic’s head – but it still didn’t get a rise out of him. Instead, the smoke simply startled the snowflakes that were disappearing on the Medic’s meticulously starched lab coat. Great, more snow. Just what they needed: another foot of snow to whip around when the storm these clouds promised came bludgeoning down upon them, undoing all the work they had done clearing the tracks. Bloody brilliant. Sniper huffed; he was cold and starting to get hungry. This train was bringing their last shipment before they had to bunker down for the winter; if it was delayed, it would mean not only some serious rationing, but also being left defending the recently captured base four men short of a full unit. Getting any form of quick outside aid would also be impossible: the next habitable area was a backwoods Indian reserve nearly 20 kilometres out. Sniper knew the lay of the land and how nasty the weather got here – as any responsible survivalist would. Given the equipment they had on hand, there was not going to be any trips made to the reserve in the upcoming months – even if they were desperate. Hunting would perhaps be a plausible source of food for one, possibly two men, but not to feed the whole team. Bears, wolves, and wolverines also did not make the easiest, nor safest, marks – and they sure as piss didn’t taste like chicken. There were also going to be days when the storms would effectively cut off their communications with the outside world. If the lines were damaged it could mean months without outside contact. Not even a well equipped plane could make it through during the dead of winter. What if something was to happen? What was there to do during cease fire? And what about his primal needs –there wasn’t a damn knock-shop this far north, even if he could drive. Sniper spat. He was not looking forward to spending the winter in this desolate hole. Warming himself by the fire, Sniper took a glance at the BLU facility in the distance – his future prison. Barley visible within the rock wall was a blast door sunk into the darkness, its metal face still covered in ice. Beside the opening an access terminal was torn open, feeding multi-coloured wires into a collection of Engineer’s hand held PDAs and a generator. This door had been locked down and frozen over merely days before; what was so damn important about this BLU cave that it couldn’t just sit here for the winter? “Oi, doc, wake up!†Sniper barked. Medic jumped. “Vhat?!†“Why are we in this frozen shithole?†“Fess…†Medic hissed. “’Ave you vorgotten already? Ve are vaiting for ze train.†“Don’t be a wanker.†Sniper waved an accusing finger in Medic’s face. “You know wot I ‘m talking about, you and Truckie have been down in that cave for days. And I don’t think you were playing hide the sausage.â€
“Don’t be a wanker.†Sniper waved an accusing finger in Medic’s face. “You know wot I ‘m talking about, you and Truckie have been down in that cave for days. And I don’t think you were playing hide the sausage.†“Playing vhat?†Shaking his head, Medic turned towards the Sniper. “Herr Sniper, English is hard enough vithout your…eeh..Australian…†Medic gyrated his hand, trying to recall a suitable translation. “Forget that, just tell me wot have you two been doing? Wot’s in there?†Medic removed his round Windsor glasses with a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ve are not sure, Herr Sniper. Et vas nothing but ice until yesterday. Herr Engineer got ze boilers up and running, so zher is power now, and heat. Just needs to fix ze rest of ze leaks. Ve vere using ze vasser from ze heating to thaw some of ze areas.†“Wot did ya find?†“Labs, lots of zem.†“Wot were they doing?†Medic replaced his glasses and stretched jaw. “I do not know…†he said, his eyes wandering back to the horizon. Like a plate of grey molasses being poured into a bowl, the storm clouds were flowing into the valley, oozing out along the edges, consuming the treetops as they approached. “Doc?†“Maybe cloning research,†Medic continued. “Cloning?†Medic suddenly looked furious. “Ja! Zhey have a working Respawn now, like one of ours! But it is… I zhink zey are missing something, or vere not yet using it. I have started to convert ze systems over, though. Vonce ze supplies and Spy arrive ve can finish ze repairs and start decoding zheir notes.†“I don’t get it. They left notes? Wasn’t it abandoned?†“Ja, but zhey left everything. Zhey locked it down quick.†Medic paused, moving his lips but not speaking. “…Ve found bodies. I cannot tell if zhey vere part of ze experiments, or…†he shrugged. Experiments? Bodies? Great. Sniper was starting to like this assignment less and less each cold and dismal minute. “And Truckie wants us to sleep there?†“Et vill be varmer. Only ze lower levels are still flooded.†“Warmer? With an iceblock for a basement?†“Nein, et is not all ice. Et is varmer underground. And ze vasser must be moving, and… salty? Et is like a river down zere. Herr Engineer vas trying to vork ze pump vhen he yelled at me. ‘I canna vork here vith your hoverin’, doc!’†Medic imitated the Engineer’s manner in a shrill voice. “So I left and came up here.†Taking another drag off his fag, Sniper shook his head. “I don’t like it.†“Velcome to ze club.†Medic grinned. Goddamn it, why does he have to grin like that? It was unnerving; he had such a wide mouth for such a thin face; like an eel. Hands behind his back, Medic turned towards Sniper. “Now, Herr Sniper, you tell me somezing.†“Wot?†“How long are ve stationed here for?†Sniper’s eyes crinkled in a lopsided grin. “Wot makes you think I know that, mate?†“Spy.†“And?†Medic rolled his eyes. “Alvays games! You read his mail, Dummkopf. Now vhat did headquarters say?†Sniper continued to smirk, taking his time to finish his smoke, drink the last of the coffee and put away his thermos. “Spook isn’t going to be happy.†“Vell?†“For the entire winter. Six months.†“Of course,†Medic groaned. “Aie, mate. And nearly a month of full darkness right on Christmas.†“Wunderbar…†Sniper checked his watch again. “I think it’s gonna start getting darker by 10 minutes a day soon. That’ll make this hellhole cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.†Medic snorted. “Anyzing else?†“Aye,†Sniper rubbed his hands together excitedly. “I learned something interesting about our new team mates.†“Oh?†“They’re not like us.†“Vhat do you mean by zat?†Medic snapped. Jeesh, short fuse today, eh Doc? Sniper leaned in close to the Medic. “They’re not mercenaries.†Medic looked confused. “Military?†“No,†Sniper quickly scanned the base. Demoman and Soldier were just out of earshot, still engrossed in their game. Sniper put his hand on Medic’s shoulder and drew him closer. “We’re not suppose’t know this, you keep this secret.†“You are playing vith me, Herr Sniper,†Medic rumbled. “Nah, I’m serious.†“You know I do not talk.†Sniper leered and nodded. “Ok, well, they’re convicts!†“Criminals?†“Yah, lifers too… I think.†“Do you know vhat zhey did?†“Nah, Spook didn’t say anything.†Sniper rubbed his jaw, stimulated by the contact of leather on his prickly stubble. “And I can’t find the papers he was reading.†Medic gave Sniper a smug glare, his eyes glinting softly like the ice that covered everything in this damn place. It was a knowing look, one he always got from the doctor when he gossiped – it was an impression of amused warning. He only truly talked to Medic about his sleuthing, and Medic was reminding him why – Medic did not talk. Others might. “So?†Medic pried. “It seemed serious. Spook went all quite like after reading the report. What are those yobos at HQ thinking anyway, leaving us alone with a bunch of criminals?†“How bad can et be?†Medic shrugged. “Et is not like ve are helpless citizens.†“Yah, but Spook was… you know, spooked.†Sniper grumbled. “He doesn’t get like that.†Medic tilted his head in consideration. “Zey cannot be zat bad. Most of you fought in ze var, and ve all kill for a living. Vhat are you vorried about?†Sniper eyed Medic cynically. “Et doesn’t feel right.†“Feh, you are being silly. Look,†Medic pointed towards the mouth of the mountain pass. “Zey are here.†Dark billowing clouds rose in great puffs and dissipated in the distance, barely visible above the jagged, snow covered cliffs and thick forest. Felt more so than heard, the low, reverberating chug of a train entered the valley. “About bloody time,†Sniper stretched his back. “So, you helping us unload?†“Ja,†Medic nodded, straightening his lab coat. “Alrightly.â€
Sounding its arrival with a shrill whistle, the train finally wound its way around the cliff. Slicing through mounds of windblown snow and forest debris with its plough, it emerged from the dense woods and began to slow. It had eight vans attached to the locomotive: one coal cart, one carriage, three freights, and three extra cars filled to the brim with coal. “Well, would’nt ya look at dat, a steam engine. Figures we’d still be using puffer bellies when about everybody else’s using diesel.†Sniper stepped aside for the soft-spoken southerner. Engineer strode on past, his short-waisted frame decked out in a bulky red parka and knee high boots. The fur lined hood was drawn close against his square face, covering all save a pair of dark welding goggles. “Hey Truckie,†Sniper tipped his worn slouch hat. “We takin’ this load into the new base?†“ Yessiree,†Engineer turned towards the rest of their current team: “Hey, boys! C’mere!†Soldier and Demoman finished their game of Othello, taking an inordinately long amount of time counting the chips. After a second count, Soldier cried out in victory, stumbling off his ammo box, his oversized helmet wobbling with his enthusiasm. “Ach, I gotta stoop pl’in ya on tha scrumpy!†the Demoman slurred, a second bottle of whiskey in hand as he staggered through the snow. Chest proudly puffed, Soldier strutted up behind him. “No hard feelings, son. You Brits are just not the tacticians we American’s are!†Soldier’s gravelly, drill sergeant bark made Sniper cringe. “’Ow many times do I gotta bloody tell ye! I’m Scottish! Not a bloody limey!†Demo bellowed in return, sloshing the contents of his whiskey bottle with a violent gesture. “Come on, men!†Engineer said, marching up towards the train. “We’re getting new team member today, can ya’ at least try and act like we run a professional team here?†“Yes, sir! Stand at attention and greet the new recruits, maggots!†Soldier barked, standing at attention. Eyes rolling – eye in Demoman’s case – the team obediently stood in a loose line. Only Medic seemed to stand at attention, his arms behind his back, head held high. Like a high ranking soldier. Sniper stood where he was and spat: he wasn’t no damn soldier, not anymore. With a final puff of steam, the train settled and came to a complete stop. Suddenly, the softly-lit passenger car shuddered with movement, teetering towards the team. A shadow lumbered toward the front of the car, the shade consuming the small window before sliding the door open with a loud clatter. With a few grunts, a mammoth of a man seemingly squeezed through and dropped onto the platform, the car whiplashing back on its rails with the release of weight. A flutter of curses erupted from the car, its frost-consumed windows depicting an erratic dance of slender shadows. The colossal man stretched, his arms thick as tree trunks, and took a deep breath of the cold air. He filled his lungs, his barrel of a chest straining against the pristine buttons of his long, doubled-breasted coat. Exhaling, he surveyed the area with clear beady eyes. “Dis is good day!†he bellowed, his Russian accent thick, his wide face split in a cavernous grin. A Russian! Sniper snapped his attention from the Russian to his team. Soldier looked comically shocked, his mouth catching flies. As per usual, the Engineer remained composed, while Demoman, tanked, was obviously not in a state to notice anything. Now Medic was of particular interest to Sniper, but his body language left little to analyze. The only discernible difference in his composure was flared nostrils and a slightly drawn-in chin. Sniper returned his focus to the Russian, coming to the obvious conclusion that this man was to be their new Heavy Weapons Specialist. That mountain was sure as hell not fit to be a Scout, nor nimble enough to manoeuvre the ambush tactics of a Pyrotechnician. He stood out like a bear in a pink ribbon at church. His small head, small in comparison anyway, was bald and markedly pale against the grey sky. Huh, that sheen makes a nice easy target. “Fucking hell, pancakes! You nearly toppled the damn train!†Ah, a Boston accent, if Sniper remembered correctly. The owner of the voice leapt from the train in a blur of limbs. Sniper sneered: it was a damn kid. His long, baby-smooth face looked barley old enough to enlist, while his body, still needing time to fill out, had the appearance of being disproportionally stretched, like taffy. His lips pressed tight, the kid’s eyes, one purple and swollen, darted between the unfamiliar faces of the team. Everyone was looking at him. Sniper snorted: looked like someone had pounded the little brat’s face in recently. Strips of gauze framed his left eye, brow to check, held in place with white surgical tape. Bandages were also interlaced around his hands, although that may have been more of a fashion statement then the result of an actual injury. Considering fashion statements, the boy was hardly dressed for the weather. With ripped jeans, running shoes, and a baseball cap, the only article keeping out the cold was an old and cracked American bomber jacket – one from the war. It was obviously not his jacket – was he wearing the jacket out of respect, or was he just playing a game of pretend war for the one he had been too young to sign up for? “W-what you looking at!?†the boy said, jutting out his jaw and tightening his boney hands into balls. Even though his voice faltered, it still rang clear with hostility. “Tiny man is Scout,†Heavy suddenly boomed, gesturing towards the kid with a ham sized hand. He then pointed towards himself with his thumb. “I am Heavy Weapons Guy.†“I think they figured that out,†Scout scoffed, cracking his fists, one by one, before crossing his spindly arms on his chest. Crikey, what a show off. Huddling closer to the giant Russian, Scout shot a sneer at the team and turned towards the train expectantly. Taking a tentative step forward, the Heavy turned to the train as well. Eventually everyone followed suit. Everything was strangely quiet, the breath of seven men being held and released in slow ebbs, as if afraid to disturb the silence. Something twitched in the passenger car door, inhaling with a low hissing rasp. It began to ease its way down the short little steps, hesitating at the threshold, a lumpy mass of grey wool. It exhaled, a wet rattling sound leaking out of a moist hollow in a whisper of awe. What the hell was it? It was just a man, Sniper reaffirmed – wearing a ratty, ridiculously oversized wool coat that hung from his shoulders like a mantle. There was a face too, pale and red, hidden behind a mane of blond hair. The young man reached the snowy floor, awed by the crunch his shoes made in the snow. He took a few steps forward, and then dropped to his knees. The scene was so eerily silent that Sniper could hear the snow squeak in response to the man’s weight.
“Auuah!†the man shrilled, his voice an uncomfortable cry of sadness and delight. The sound actually startled his team. The blond stood up, flinging the massive jacket off his shoulders, revealing a stark white straitjacket beneath. His arms were loose, the elongated sleeves whipping the snowy platform with their belts as he struggled with the remaining restraints. Too quick for comfort, he had wriggled his way out of the jacket and tossed it aside, his thick body pale and heaving with exertion. His hands free, he dove into the snow, taking great handfuls to coat his face and chest, allowing it to melt against the heat of his body as he continued to cry out in ecstasy. Hacking laughter followed as he drew his hands across his body and face, tracing the deep gashes and divots of an old burn scar that ran the length of his left side, disappearing, and presumably continuing, down into his white trousers. Sniper balked – that face of his was a mockery of human emotion – trapped in two halves, like a theatre mask. The scarred husk of his left side remained inert, devoid of movement or emotion, forever clawed into a grimace. The right side was the husk’s polar opposite: preposterously animate, childlike laughter threatening to crack his head in half, his eye crinkled in merriment. Those eyes… were unlike anything Sniper had ever seen before: such a colour, the scorching glare of the high noon sky of his beloved outback. They smouldered with madness and raw power, dominating orbs that drew you in against your will – one could almost overlook the mass of scare tissue devouring half his face. The rest of him was thick with muscle, softened with flesh, and furrowed with radial burn scars. This must be the last of the new recruits, the Pyrotechnician. Pyro. “What a fantastic view! I was going to go barmy if I had to spend another second in that blasted train!†Shocked, Sniper was snapped out of his self induced awe. While the voice had the baritone rasp of one being hung from a tree, Pyro was speaking the Queen’s English. “Why, ‘ello!†Pyro greeted, nodding politely to everyone in turn. “Sorry if my display unhinged you, gents, I have not been able to feel the coldness of snow in quite some time, you see. I’m sure you understand my overt enthusiasm.†Pyro bent forward, picking up his straight jacket, shaking it free of snow. With a flourish, he stood and confidently strutted over towards Sniper. Sniper braced himself, but Pyro simply walked straight past him, “Please excuse me,†and dropped the jacket into the barrel fire. He was momentarily entranced by the leap in flames before he tore his attention back to Sniper. With a smile only half his face could express, Pryo eased himself closer to the Sniper, capturing the marksmen within his heavy lidded eyes. Sniper looked down at Pyro, lowering his tinted frames to get a better look. He figured Pyro was about a foot shorter than himself, but at least just as heavy. Pyro continued to look at him expectantly, refusing to break eye contact. This close, Sniper noted how one of the eyes was damaged, the pupil contracted to such a degree he was probably almost blind in that eye. Sniper figured he should say something. “So, uh , how is the old chook these days?†“Blimey!†Pyro beamed. “A brother from down under! I’m guessing you are the Sniper Spy was talking about?†Sniper nodded. “Ha!†With a friendly slap on Sniper’s shoulder, Pyro continued laughing that wet hack of his. “Well don’t worry; I realize the Queen shipped you all the criminals, but she left us with the politicians! In my honest opinion, you guys got the better deal! I’ll trade you two politicians for a cutpurse any day.†Wits still numbed from the sudden change of pace, Sniper decided to do what he did best: smile, nod, and watch. Presumably finished, Pyro turned his attention to the rest of the team. Still bare from the belt up, Pyro casually stopped in front of each member in turn, guessing their designation. “Demoman?†Pyro inquired. “Aye,†Demoman replied. “I have yet to see a man ‘of colour’ face to face, well met! Well, not a true black man, anyway. Seen plenty of men burnt black face to face, if you know what I mean.†Before Demoman had the chance to respond, Pyro was already onto the next member. “Soldier, I presume?†“Affirmative!†“I salute you, kind sir! Thanks’ for helping us Brits give those Krauts a sound thrashing!†“The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi!†Soldier guffawed, still saluting. Bloody hell, Sniper groaned, don’t encourage him. Pyro chuckled and continued his greetings. “Engineer, yes?†Engineer nodded and smiled. “Quite the learned fellow I hear, skilled in both theory and practice. Most excellent. Not something you see too often.†Engineer’s smile remained reserved with just a touch of pride as Pyro turned towards Medic. And Pyro’s demeanour fell to pieces. “I…†Pyro’s firm voice melted into a stuttering mumble. With an expression Sniper could not place, Pyro stared up at the Medic, his lip and cheek twitching in unison. Then, as if someone was pulling on a tendon, his head began to jerk to the side. Medic backed away, confused and… something else, as Pyro literally shook himself out of whatever had came over him. “I’m terribly sorry,†Pryo nearly whispered, gesturing towards the ends of the doctor’s lab coat. “It is the coat, you see. You have…†Pyro carefully studied Medic’s face, “- never treated me, correct?†Medic looked positively spooked, his arms pent tight at his sides, defensive. “I vould zink not…†Pyro inhaled and coughed. “You’re a Gerry!†Fear turned into anger as Medic bristled, drawing in his chin to glare down at the Pyro. “Iz zat going to be a problem?†Pyro stared back, taking in the Medic’s anger, feeding off it, tasting it. “I presume not, but I have been wrong in the past,†Pyro said. He seemed genuinely pleased, unaffected by Medic’s obvious disdain. Leaving Medic drained of colour, Pyro nodded politely and turned back towards the train, tromping over to the Heavy who now held his oversized wool coat. “Ahem.†Hearing a throat cleared, Sniper turned back towards the passenger train and beheld Spy, smoking one of his fine cigarettes. He was leaning up against the car, the warm glow from the windows softening the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. God, it was good to see him again. “Now, if we are all done with the introductions, could someone care to tell me what has been planned in my absence?†Sniper grinned, shoving his hands into his pocket. Long legs driving him forward, he slid up against the passenger car and met Spy’s grey eyes. “You are not going to like this.†Spy visibly sighed. He opened his cigarette case and offered one to Sniper. “Might as well give me the worse of it first…â€
Chapter 3 --------- “Well would you look at that, Tiffany†Justin whistled, face pressed up against the train cab window. “Mighty big door those REDs are hauling all that expensive cargo into, ain’t it? I think Mr. Camera will want to take a look at that.†Snap. Snap. Snap. “And she said I would never make the big bucks as a train engineer.†Snap. Snap. Snap. “Tell that to the mink coat I’mma gonna buy ya, Milly.†Snap. Snap. Snap. “Oooo, and what is that?†Justin leaned forward in his seat, trying to get a better look at what lay beyond the darkness of the blast door. “It looks like some type of car, like a tram. A mighty big tram, mind. All that metal, looks sturdy enough to withstand old Fat Boy and Little Man, I’d bet. Looks important, too.†Snap. “That picture should be worth something to Miss Elizabeth, eh Tiffy?†Snap. Snap. Snap. The RED mercenaries formed a loose firemen line, passing crates from person to person into the tram. “That is an awful lot of provisions for only nine men.†Snap. Snap. Snap. “Hey, where are those two going, eh?†Carefully concealing the small camera against his thigh, the train engineer grabbed his shovel and headed outside. “Sure is cold outside, eh Tiff? Let’s get some coal on that fire.†Shovelling coal into the furnace, he watched the men fiddle around on the platform by the hopper cars. Snap. Snap. By the looks of it, they were removing a large camouflage tarpaulin from beneath their feet. The process was slow and befuddled, the men confusingly taking orders from a stout fellow in goggles. Finally it appeared that one of his passengers, Mr. Russian, was fed up with the direction. His meaty fists grabbed a section of the exposed tarpaulin, and with a few heavy steps backwards, the sheet was hauled out from under the others feet, sending that coloured boy to the ground, right on his ass. Swearing ensued, but the real prize was what was under the tarp. Snap. Snap. Mr. Goggles got to work unlatching sections of the platform, recruiting Mr. Russian and Mr. Straitjacket to pull on what Justin figured to be handles. With a few choice curse words, and some stomping, and finally a few crowbars, the men pried open the platform hatch. Snap. Snap. Snap. A secret compartment, perhaps? Only darkness, once again; it looked to go straight down, no rails, stairs or ladders. More orders from Mr. Googles – now they were fiddling with the hopper cars. A loud clank later, the hopper was released and the coal tumbled into the hole – ah! That is what it was for. Wonder if there is something else down there; the tram needs power after all, maybe a power station? Miss Elizabeth will want to know this. Snap. Snap. “Well geesh, Tiff, why didn’t they tell old Justin that they were planning to dump the coal into a chute? Just unloading they says, no need for – †Justin jammed the camera into his coveralls – Mr. Goggles was looking at him, stomping his way through the snow, coming towards him. Shit. “Hey partner!†Mr. Goggles pulled back his furry hood. He was as bald as Mr. Russian. Oh shit, I’mma dead man. “Can ya move her on back so we can dump the second load?†Wait, move? Oh. “Oh, sure! Just give her a few to heat up, ok?†Put the coal on the fire, don’t let him think you were doing anything different. Thank God Mr. Goggles just wanted the train moved, didn’t notice the camera. What if he had? Wouldn’t survive the confrontation, that’s what – not with those hired guns, he heard stories about them. Would make a widow out of Milly, they would. That’d learn her. “Thank ya kindly!†Mr. Googles turned to the other men. “Hey boys! Back off from the train, its moving!†“Movin? But my crate of axle grease!†Sunglasses in this weather? What a loon. “It’s just backing up, darlin’, relax!†“What in the ‘ell do ye need axle grease fer, boyo?†Hell of an accent on coloured boy. “It’s my Vegemite, mate, it was suppose to come on this train!†“Oh? Vegemite? Is that like Marmite?†Whatever the stuff was, it had Mr. Straitjacket’s interests peaked. “Aye, it’s better, mate, doesn’t strip your taste buds.†“A whole crate? Blasted, I didn’t think to get myself some Marmite, would you be terribly put off if I nicked a jar or two of yours?†“Uh…I suppose not.†“Splendid!†“Steam should be built up now, time to back ya up, Tiff.†With a chug, the locomotive eased back, positioning the second hopper, and then the third, into place as Mr. Goggles and friends dumped the coal into the drop chute. Eventually the last of the cargo was hauled onto the tram, leaving Justin alone with his camera. Miss Elizabeth was going to be tickled pink this time. All these photos, Mr. Russian being brought in chains, the Kid in cuffs escorted by the fuzz, and Mr. Straitjacket! Oh, they must have got that loony right out of the bin! That mask, those cuffs, that photo alone was sure to bring home the bacon! And just to sweeten the deal, those copies of the shipping manifests should provide a nice fat loaf. Driving for RED has turned out to be the best job Justin has ever landed. “Two jobs, double the pay, and only half the hours. Tiffany, you’re turning out to be the best investment I’ve ever made!†Justin tenderly patted the inside of the cab. “And Milly said this was a bad idea, bah! We will show her, won’t we?†With a shrill of the whistle, Justin reversed Tiffany and headed back to the mouth of the basin. Unloading was quick, almost too quick. Something felt odd about leaving the mercenaries way out here all on their own. It was going to be a long winter, after all, and he was not scheduled to come back this way until the thaw late in April. Was he really leaving them here for six months? Do they have enough supplies? How are they staying in contact with the company? It was like they were abandoning them, to fend off a mountain from… who? There was no one else around, not even those BLU fellows. What was up here? What is in that mountain?
My love for your pyro cannot be put into words.
Pyro get's his debut. -------- Free, finally free! After so many years of imprisonment, subjugated to tight, strangling tedium – bound in cotton, swaddled in chains, and left to rot, he was finally free from it all! No more white-walled rooms, barred windows, and harsh lights for company; smelling vomit, isopropanol, sweat, and latex; tasting medicine, cotton, and soap; and always with the needles, needles, needles. But no more. No more questions, no more prescriptions! Pyro had managed to escape one institution for another – and killing for freedom did not sound so bad. Not here. Here, the smell was of cold autumn air, tasting like winter, the tang of pine needles dancing with their little high heels in the back of his nose. Here, new faces and environments held saccharine promises of conflict, of change. Here, the people would not scream and cry with darkness, for here, the minds around him were not blemished by madness. Here, the delicious labyrinths of professed order reined, ripe and ready for consumption. Pyro revelled here, revelled in the tenderness of the cold; his skin was frozen sharp, his lungs whispering with aching, his feet swimming in ice, his hands like knobby stumps of cramped meat. The experience was of no discomfort, not even with Heavy’s rutty old coat scraping his flesh with its fibre nails. This very moment, hugging his crate, getting splinters, was the best he had felt in years. Alive, off medication, and free. Pyro ambled towards the trams, childishly clutching his large crate of barber stick candies against his chest. A multitude of flavours were harboured within, a treasure trove of Pyro’s favourite confections. The mere thought of them was making him salivate. So many flavours to sample, fascinating combinations of future sustenance. Just like his new mates. Oh, goody, goody. Hesitating at the threshold, Pyro inspected the mountain facility. He looked up – how curious, the bulky blast door was merely a service hatch for an even larger entrance – and part of a pair as well, much like a big old metal barn! Wonder what kind of sheep this place had reared, what lies they were fed? Pyro walked back outside. It was cleverly camouflaged, too; one would never know just how big this facility was. Such secrets this place must hold. Chuckling, Pyro hurried back into mountain, eager to begin his expedition. Beyond the doors, a vast hemispherical tunnel stretched into the darkness. Great metal beams arched overhead, folding into each other to form pairs of cement encased pillars. The dual spine of pillars ran deep into the earth, splitting the cavern into two halves, a stonework platform and stair running between. Each crescent half of the cavern housed a single hulking tram, suspended by strong metal arms clenching the slick rails overhead. It was like a reverse Underground, where Pyro found himself on the ceiling instead of the floor – how much more fascinating that would have proved. A shame it was not so. What was not steel beams or trams was pipes and carved granite walls, thick with hoary ice, a great viperfish mouth of icicle teeth with an endless gullet of moist blackness. The darkness lay ahead for miles, the inadequately lit platform disappearing into the distant haze. The decline was steep and glossy with ice. Pyro entertained the idea of sliding down the tunnel – ignoring the central stair – using the ice to drive his acceleration into a chasm of black, wet death: his legs shattered into juicy sacks of meat upon impact, his organs ruptured and split like over-ripe fruit, his neck snapping with wet pops from the whiplash. Pyro figured it would be fun while it lasted, but it was probably best to use the tram system for now: there was so much yet to see. The members of RED scuttled about the trams, securing cargo and chatting amongst themselves. Colossal BLU posters framed a glass enclosure in the middle of the expansive platform, lecturing about workplace safety and corporate confidentiality. A list of arrival and departure times was also displayed, right above a wide heat vent. Most of the mercenary unit was huddled above the vent for warmth. Spy stood in the shadows, hunched over and coughing. The older members were fishing, probing the new recruits for buttons and triggers. Scout wrestled and struggled against the hook, biting with wicked little teeth only a stint in prison ssharpened. Heavy was a puffer, flaunting his size and resolve, avoiding the bait through deceiving ignorance, and threatening through stillness. A veteran fish, it appeared. Yet no one baited for Pyro. Perhaps he had missed the hooks? Bloody bollocks… and fishing was his favourite game, too. He must have been too occupied with his surroundings?. Pyro was rarely bothered during his explorations and figured it a lack of awareness on his part – he knew there were days when not even the most persistent voices could break the turbulent waters of his consciousness. And now he had missed his chance to play. Pouting, Pyro shuffled his way into a tram on his left. The right tram was nearly filled, the last of the larger crates being secured by Engineer and Soldier. He decided to enter the tram on the left. Riveted steel sheets announced his presence, creaking with the tang of oiled iron from his weight. There was seating within, six pairs of red upholstered bus benches, wide enough for three. Most were crammed with boxes and sacs, others with arm rests down, calling for passengers. The seats were damp from the generated heat and rank with filth. The air was a humid cloud of stale sweat, bad breath, and smoke… with just a hint of blood. Many people had ridden this tram; Pyro could feel it, their decayed presence a phantom commuter. Tenderly securing his confectionary with the other crates, Pyro caught the harsh whispering of a hurried argument. He froze in place, holding his breath – this may prove to be important. How nice of them to have it right outside the tram he was in. “Vhen are ve going to tell zem?†“Hush, darlin’, I have this under control.†“Zhey need to know.†“I, know, dagnabbit. We’re gonna have a meeting right away, during the meal. By the way, you’re on K.P.†“But zhe kitchen…†“Never mind that, get the recruits to help ya’ clean, tell them how we do things here.†Medic grumbled his reply in what Pyro presumed to be German. “Remember how to drive the tram?†“Ja, I made et up here, did I not?†“Alright, alright, don’t be mad. Let’s get this over with.†A Southern drawl – the speaker must have been Engineer. “Hey, boys! Everyone get on board an’ find yerself a seat, train’s a-leavin’!†Medic was the first to enter the tram. Pyro was already seated by the grimy window, right up front behind the operator’s chair. Startled, Medic stumbled back and gasped something in German. Pyro got the distinct impression that this man was jumpy because of him – he had seemed calm around everyone else, barking orders, demanding obedience. Why was he acting strange around him? Surely Heavy was scarier? “Did you hear anyzing?†Medic demanded. Did Pyro hear a tremble in his voice? “Hear what?†Pyro asked innocently.Medic’s eyes narrowed as Pyro widened his half smile. “Sorry about earlier, I did not mean to offend. Spy speaks very highly of you; I hope you give me the chance to get to know you better.†Grimacing, Medic broke eye contact before speaking, concealing his anxiety by cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. “I…do not vorry about et.†Pyro was not fooled however; he noted how Medic was closing himself off with his body, slinking past Pyro to slip into the driver’s seat. Medic was always looking at his face, watching the plain side with knitted brows and pursed lips. Yet his eyes were never lured by the disfiguring scars, like everyone else. What did Medic see in his unmarred flesh? Attractiveness? Yes, that would made sense. Pyro leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms and head against the divider between him and the operator’s chair. A woody, sweet aroma greeted him, a melody of pepper, ginger and… Pyro inhaled deeply, embracing the aroma. Ah yes, patchouli, followed by cedar and redwood, with a dusting of musky suede. It was Medic’s fading cologne – a delectable melody of masculinity. While a detectible touchpong of sweat, latex, and pomade embittered the bouquet, there was no real trace of smoke. A non-smoker; how fascinating. “So why two trams, Medic?†Medic cleared his throat and hunched his shoulders, uncomfortable with Pyro’s closeness. “…Herr Engineer say et es vor redundancy. In case one breaks down.†With a sudden clanging groan, Pyro’s weight was wrenched towards the sliding door, the shift nearly sending him to the floor. Medic gave a startled yelp, barely catching himself on the control panel. Fixing himself back on to the bench, Pyro re-evaluated his surroundings. The tram continued to wobble, back and forth, in a rhythmic sway. That was when Pyro deduced the cause: Heavy was hauling himself through the door from the platform with Scout following close behind, trying to keep his balance. “Jeez, just sit down!†Scout spat, shoving Heavy forward. “Need balance car,†Heavy grumbled, effortlessly shifting a massive crate to the right side. The mammoth man’s bald head nearly reached the roof of the tram – he had to have been close to two meters tall. “I say,†Pyro grinned. “You are quite the large fellow, aren’t you? How much does a mountain like yourself weigh? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.†Heavy grunted as he squeezed himself onto a bench, engulfing it with his girth, his gut pressing up against the seat in front of him. “158 kilograms, last time I step on scale.†“What’s that in American, pancakes?†Scout sat in the bench in front of Heavy, leaning against the clouded window. “Do not be pesky bug, leetle Scoot,†Heavy returned. Scout made a face, but kept quiet.
Pyro arched what would have been his eyebrow if it had not been seared off years before. “That would be approximately three hundred and fifty pounds to you, Scoot,†Pyro winked at Scout. He turned back to Heavy. “I take it you have gained some weight since then. When was the last time you stepped on a scale?†“Last time? Ahh… What is called… school when you first get sex?†“High school?†Scout said. “Da, Da. Good times.†“Fucking hell, I barely weighed a hundred pounds in high school!†Pyro stirred: Medic’s eyes were on him; he could feel them. Outside, Spy was coughing again. “You must been so small!†Heavy’s bellowing laughter rattled the tram. Scout blushed. “I weigh way more now; I grew late, is all.†“I think I might be lighter now than I was in upper school. Being on benzodiazepines tends to stall one’s appetite.†Scout gave Pyro a look of confusion but decided against pressing the question. Or perhaps Scout had asked the question, and Pyro had failed to hear it. It was so hard to tell at times. Pyro turned his attention back to the tram door as the others entered. Engineer and Soldier had already boarded the other tram and were preparing to leave, their silhouettes oily shadows in the tram’s windows. The distinctive hum of electricity began filling the tunnels, followed by the rumbling of a large engine trembling to life. Screeching, the right tram inched forward, shuddering violently before starting in on its descent; it built up speed and shot forward into the darkness, leaving in its wake nothing but the crackle of electricity and the reverberating clunk of metal. Spy and Sniper were the last REDs on the platform. A quivering pole, Sniper watched the tram rattle deeper into the earth, his knuckles bleached white from his vice grip on his rifle. Hesitantly, he turned and stared wide-eyed at the remaining tram. Medic stood by the door, beckoning Sniper forward. Spy stood behind him, blocking Sniper’s escape. “I’m not getting on that thing!†Sniper’s gruff voice all but squeaked. “Hush, mon ami, tout ira bien,†Spy cooed. Rubbing Sniper’s back, he lightly ushered him forward. “There is nothing to fear, I assure you.†“Ja, I rode zis many times. Et es like ze underground trains ve rode zat one time. Zat vas not so bad, right?†Medic took Sniper’s rifle from him and secured it with the other cargo. “It just ain’t bloody right, stuffing men into those metal cans and taking them underground. Men are meant to be on the surface!†Sniper’s voice wavered, but with Spy’s gentle urging he got on the tram and sat down. Spy and Sniper sat together, despite the ample amount of seating available. Awed by the display, Pyro watched. These men must have known each other for a very long time, their intimate mannerisms suggesting years of familiarity and shared burdens. Such trust… what was it like? Sniper appeared composed, but Pyro could smell his cold, earthy sweat. The man was terrified. Claustrophobia – when the ground reaches out to strangle you, smothering you with its clammy weight. Sniper was not going to like this place – he was already clenching the arm rests, and they had not yet even started their descent. A beautiful, glinting silver case seemingly appeared in Spy’s hands. Slipping a cigarette into his mouth, he offered the case to Sniper; Sniper nodded stiffly, but did not reach for it. With a smile that cracked his face in an odd way, Spy put the cigarette between Sniper’s lips. The lines of Spy’s face clashed with his grin – he must not smile very often. Sniper grumbled his thanks as Spy reached into his pocket. With a flick, out came a lighter. And Pyro became lost within the spark. From sacred blue to divine white, when the flame leapt to light it flirted and danced, just for him. He could not even remember what the Zippo lighter looked like; the doting caress of lighter fluid had already overridden his senses. As fast as it had come, the flame was gone, releasing him. Pyro giggled – he needed to watch himself: he was getting too excited. Think about the crates. Not only did he purchase equipment and provisions with his enlistment bonus, he had also bought lighters, lighter fluid, and matches. He just needed to keep it together long enough to retrieve them. Then he would be calm. “Be prepared, ve are leaving now,†Medic activated the current, switching the tram into forward gear. The tram shuddered to life, the lights diming in response to the sudden draw of power. Inching forward, the tram moaned as it picked up speed. Just like the Underground, the tram fluttered against the wind sheer, vibrating like it was trying to sift its passengers through a sieve. Sniper whimpered a curse. Outside, the lights flowed and ebbed behind the grimy windows, gossamer ghosts waltzing in time with the continuous pulse of the rails. It was hypnotic, calming. Pyro found himself entranced, listening to the song. The pressure was building in his ears, heightening the bassy metallic tones – the muffled conversations around him became lost to the drone of metal. Nothing but the woody, sweet aroma of Medic. He closed his eyes. And the acidic tang of burning embraced him. He opened his eyes and found himself staring fixedly at the front windscreen as the tram filled with a scorching red glow. A melody of sparks and flames writhed in the distance, swelling and thrashing, closer and closer as they sped towards the inferno. The blackened husk of the other tram lay before theirs, fueling the fire that bled into an electrical blaze that outlined the tunnel through the wires above. Before Pryo could cry out, they were engulfed in flames, the fire slithering through the cracks of the tram, blackening and peeling the paint closest to the windows. With a reverberating thud, their tram slammed into the burning husk of the other, exploding into a spectacle of sparks, sending the entire team forward as they dropped off the rails. Screaming surrounded him, both piercing and low, guttural fears and muffled sobs. The hot, sticky fumes of burning fibres, scorched metal, and smoking flesh rushed into his lungs, licking his olfactory bulbs before clutching at his alveoli. The taste of burning, the smell of heat, the sound of screeching, snapping, crackling… “Hey!†Pyro opened his eyes; cold air greeted them, stinging. “You okay, man? You started to shake, got the doc all worried.†“Scout?†Pyro looked about. It was cold, wet, and dark. The tram was lazily making its way towards a bright square of light in the distance – presumably their destination. Everything else was cast in the deep cold undertones of an ill-lit mine – there was no warm glow of fire. Bollocks; hopefully he hadn’t done anything unbecoming during his episode. Pyro glanced about the tram – everyone looked a little shaken, but they were not looking at him. They were looking outside. Good. “Scout, how long do you suppose we have been on the tram for?†“…What, you serious?†Scout said. “Like five minutes. Why?†“Oh,†Pyro tittered, the dead side of his face twitching. “A short one, how nice.†“…Uh, a short what?†“Sorry about ze shaking, I forgot to varn you,†Medic interrupted, turning his head towards the Pyro and the now very pale Sniper. Must have been quite the scare for him; it looked like he had lost his tan. “Bloody hell, Doc!†Sniper squeaked. “I’m going to kill you for that!†Spy was smirking, coughing. “What happened, exactly?†Pyro asked Medic, leaning in close to the doctor’s ear. Pyro heard Medic swallow. “Vhen ve switch tracks, ze tram drops a bit and shakes a lot. Did you not feel it?†Pyro paused, recounting his brief lapse into insanity. “Yes, I suppose I did.†Medic cleared his throat and addressed the team. “Get ready to unload. Ve are reaching ze varehouse level. Do not open ze freezer. Ve vill use ze kitchen storage on ze second level for ze food.†“Why can’t we open the freezer? Something in there we aren’t supposed to see?†Scout scoffed. Medic’s eyes grew cold and narrow, two ice picks of loathing. “Unless you vant to smell like a putrid mass of rotten fish for a veek, I suggest you listen to your superiors, kinder,†he snapped, slamming on the breaks. It was probably for Scout’s benefit: he was standing, after all. “Ooh, that explains why ye smelled like a fishwife a few days ago!†Demoman laughed. Medic’s ears reddened as the tram filled with laughter. Ignoring their merriment, he clenched his jaw and busied himself with shutting down the tram. They had just entered the warehouse level. With the engines cut, Pyro could hear the loud crashing of fans and the teeth-chattering hum of machinery. Curious, he crept up to the windscreen. They were directly behind Engineer’s tram; Solider and Engineer were already unloading crates and boxes onto the cement platform – ammunitions and weapons, mostly. Before them was a great, concrete-encased rectangular room loomed ahead, bright with industrial lighting. When Medic opened the door, a great gush of cold air rushed into the tram, whipping Pyro’s hair back. Alternating waves of warm and cool air brushed past him, moist and chilling. Pyro walked onto the platform, squinting to sharpen his sight. The room was an extensive bustle of mechanical activity. Far against the back wall, a complex thermal power station stood, partially veiled by shifting steam. A maze of piping emerged from the cloud, running along the sweating walls and sinking into the earth. Pyro counted four visible boilers, only two of which appeared to be running – blazing hellmouths of radiating heat mirages and steam. To his left was where the rhythmic thundering thump-tromp machine was singing. A massive ventilation shaft descended from the ceiling into a contraption of pumps, ducts and fans that emanated cold winter air. Multiple sections of the duct work proceeded to run the lengths of the room, massive tunnels of interlaced aluminum cubes, snaking their way up into the ceiling. A few sections linked with the power station, presumably warming the air to a more tolerable temperature. Directly to Pyro’s right was a well ventilated, partially walled off section open only on the tram side. Here, towering racks of steel and skids held hundreds of crates and, just as Medic promised, a ridiculously large freezer near the back of the walled section. A single forklift was left – as if frozen – lowering one of the skids, its engine long ago drained of fuel. “There was food in the freezers?†Spy’s question rang loud, even over the fans. “Ja,†Medic replied, dropping a crate onto the cement platform. “And it was rotten? In this cold?†Medic remained silence, as if guiltily realizing what the revelation meant. “Et vas… one large mass of rotten sludge.†“And what would cause that?†“Et must have been open to varm air.†“I can smell it,†Pyro added, wrinkling his nose: rotten meat, oil, damp, decay, and… something else, far too faint or distant to truly hold. Pyro stared at the ventilation shaft against the far wall. “This place was not simply abandoned. Look about you; doesn’t this place have the air of fear? Everything dropped at the very last moment? Can you not smell it? Feel it?†Everyone was staring at him again, questioning glances of uncertainty. They looked about the warehouse, noticing the irregularities: the abandoned machinery, the discarded tools, a lone pair of work boots, strange stains under thin patches of ice… “Aye, lad, I feel it,†Demoman whispered, his dark eye wide, zipping side to side as he surveyed the shadows in the distance. “Don’ suppose the place is… haunted? Do ye?†He was asking Pyro this question – a curious action. How would he know if the place was visited by spirits? Demoman continued to stare, locked onto Pyro’s face, awaiting a reaction. “I will not have my men entertaining such absurd notions!†Soldier barked, dropping a crate to the floor angrily. “There is no such thing as ghosts, private! You cannot feel them. Do I make myself clear?†Demoman sneered, pointing the lip of his whiskey bottle at the Soldier. “Now ya listen here, boyo! Mum always said those queer in the head knew things that other’s don’ – more sensitive. Not all occupied with normal stuff, see? So let me ask me questions.†Demoman turned back to Pyro. “Tell me, mate, what’d ye feel? Anything?†Pyro made a face. “I’m not rightfully sure… I do feel a bit cold. What is a ghost suppose to feel like, exactly?†“You’re being a bloody idiot,†Sniper spat. “The place was just abandoned, flooded, right? Everyone left because of the water, nothing else.†“And didn’ take a bloody thing with em?†Demoman spat back. “Man, what the fuck? I was told we’d be fighting BLUs, not playing fucking Hardy Boys Mysteries,†Scout said, cocking his head to the side. “When do we start cracking some heads?†“Where are BLUs?†Heavy added. “Should be here, yes?†“The base is cleared; I made sure of it myself.†Soldier pounded his fist into his hand for emphasis. “All by yerself? People could be hiding anywhere!†Demoman slurred. “Look at teh size of this level alone!†“I thought you were thinking this place was haunted, rummy,†Scout mumbled. “Oooh, come closer and say that to me face, boy!†“Enough,†Spy snapped, silencing the team. He turned his grey gaze to Medic. Such interesting eyes Spy had, angry slates of steel under a sad, cold sea. How delightfully depressing. â€Doctor,†Spy said evenly. “What is going on?†Despite Spy’s shorter stature, Medic shrunk from his glare – the oldest child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Vell, ze lower level-†“We were gonna talk about that at dinner, Spah,†Engineer interjected, coming up behind Medic: protective, defensive. Once again silence. The tension between Engineer and Spy was palpable and rising. Pyro watched the tension unfold like a violent little flower. Someone did not like to be left in the dark. “Zere es a lot to discuss,†Medic gently added. Spy exhaled. “Fine. I suppose it can wait. Get everything unloaded.†He slipped another cigarette between his lips, eyeing Engineer with a steady glare. “I want a full debriefing at dinner, though. Leave nothing out.†“Alright,†Engineer nodded, relieved. “But I can’t promise much. We still haven’t figured everything out yet.†“Like what happened here,†Pyro gurgled, the damage to his throat and lungs making him hiss. “It is in the walls, floating on the air, clinging to our sweat. It has left its stain on this place – cold and brown. Like blood.†Pyro started laughing to himself, quiet, rasping hacks of amusement. Laughter wasnthe best way to relieve tension, after all.
ooo you put up another chapter. I almost missed it. That chapter was crazy, heh heh.
This is an amazing story your descriptions are simply wonderful What was not steel beams or trams was pipes and carved granite walls, thick with hoary ice, a great viperfish mouth of icicle teeth with an endless gullet of moist blackness. The darkness lay ahead for miles, the inadequately lit platform disappearing into the distant haze. This right here is some beautiful expression. Do more, do more beautiful things.
Thank you, and I shall! Sorry for the slow updates, university and work like to eat up my time.
This story is absolutely goddamn beautiful If I picked up a novel and it read like this I would buy the shit out of it. Keep writing! I want to know how the mystery plays out! You have absolutely OWNED the characters, good sir. Loving the British Pyro, loving how each chapter is a different P.O.V., loving the relationships between the characters.
This is truly a thing of beauty.
Oh my. I love this take on the Pyro very much! Please keep up the amazing work~!
Mooore!
Your Pyro is the best Pyro I've seen so far. I can't wait to see what sets him off into insanity!
The RED team delved deeper into the BLU research facility, consumed by the cold stone and cement walls. Ached steel girders ran the length of the main corridor, linked together by a massive aluminum heat duct that bisected the tunnel’s ceiling. The architecture had the appearance of a skeleton — it was like being swallowed whole, nothing but the rising dread to contemplate before the serpent’s stomach, viewing its cramped ribcage on the way down. Who plans a corridor to look like the inside of a snake? Sniper spat on the dust covered floor. Everything about this place felt… wrong. The lies he was continually telling himself were no longer sustaining him: this place wasn’t abandoned because of the rising water. A flood wouldn’t make the place feel like this… There was an acidic tang of despair and fear in the air. He could not place the stench, but it reminded him of caged beasts, wallowing in pools of their own filth, trapped. Yet here he stood, willingly committing himself to live in a cement and steel beast hundreds of kilometres below the earth’s surface – with thousands of tons of rock pressing down on its supports. Supports that were rusted and eroded by water, frozen and thawed, over and over, waiting for the final shift of weight that would send the earth crashing down upon him, pinning him beneath its mass as he awaited his slow, breathless death. Sniper stopped walking and forced his eyes shut. Bloody bollocks, stop it, stop thinking about it. This isn’t helping. This place is top of the line, new, and of BLU construction; they build things, it’s in their blasted name. Do what Medic said and think about something else. Medic had told Sniper to do complex math to distract his mind in difficult times like these. But bugger it all, he had trouble doing simple division, let alone ‘complex’ math! Years ago he did as told, trudging though division like some Melvin, but Sniper discovered that there were far more entertaining thoughts to divert his attentions: particularly memories from his old shag wagon ways. From his first kiss to his last ferret run, he had speared the bearded clam more times than any self-respecting bloke could even dream of. And now was the time to relish his conquests. Sniper relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath of memory. Bethany was his first mark. Her thick muscular thighs and hot-to-the-touch, sun-kissed body had driven his tailbone into the dust with her throes of pleasure – him in turn flipping her over to ride her hard in the outback sun. Like the very beasts he hunted. During the cold of the war there was Hilda, a tender, blonde German bombshell. Fear merged with passion as they warmed themselves that cold night with their naked heat. Oh, if her husband had only known. Then there was the streets of France, housing the phantom of a dark-haired shrew in the resistance whose name he could never pronounce nor remember. She was a tight little cunt, and it was worth the exertion to have her long legs opened and draped over his shoulders like one of those gay little French sweaters. And his favourite conquest: the Jap twins in the years after America had circumcised their nation’s pride. He could still hear their high-pitched voices dripping with desperation, squealing in pain and bliss as he had his way with them. It was the most sexually intense experience he has ever had, penetrating their lithe and smooth bodies. Even if one of them had been… male. Many came to his bed willingly, and, admittedly, not all of them were women. Growling to himself, Sniper corrected his reasoning: most of them were women, and only by pure necessity did he allow a man into his bed. He was no poofter – like some others he knew – it was just better than resorting to the mallee roots and their dank, lice-ridden knock shops. Or his hand. Hell, he refused to be that desperate again – after all he had been through, wanking just didn’t cut it anymore. At least not for any serious length of time. He would need to find ways to release the ferret, and a willing body was better than a paid one. On the other hand, there was no real worry of that; it would only be a matter of time before he would once again slip into bed with another warm body – mallee root or no. All men got desperate. All he needed to do was to dress his hook and drag out a new quarry. It was time to start the hunt. He opened his eyes. “Ya doing okay, Stretch?†Engineer asked, gripping his shoulder. Sniper grunted. Engineer walked ahead of him, pulling an upright dolly. “Don’ worry your scruffy little head, darlin’. This level has more light and open spaces. There’re even pretty pictures made to look like windows for y’all to gawk at.†“Ha ha ha. I hope all your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunnies down, Cowboy…†Engineer laughed. “Good to see yer back to yer ol’ polite self.†“Bugger off, I’m coming,†Sniper relented, pushing his dolly down the narrow corridor. Providing a pitiful amount of illumination, the sputtering and sparking fluorescents lit his way. Parts of the corridor were cast in shadows, glistening with the crystalline remnants of ice. Periodically, grey metal doors stood ajar, revealing little slivers of black voids that refused to divulge their contents. Anything could be stashed within, from simple copiers to dead bodies. “Oi, Truckie, did we search all these rooms?†“Not thoroughly, no, but Soldier and Doc took a run through ‘em with a flash light. Most of it’s yer typical corporate paraphernalia.†“Did they see anything, you know, weird?†Engineer slowed his pace. By the way Engineer was scowling, Sniper figured he wasn’t going to like the answer. “Ya see how the Doc suddenly stopped prissin’ over his appearance allava sudden?†Engineer’s voice was just barely above a grumble. Strange; it wasn’t like Truckie to whisper. The wheels of Sniper’s dolly squeaked as he sped up. He met Engineer’s warm eyes. “Yeh… I hope you’re gonna tell me it was Soldier’s fault and Medic was just hitting the sauce too hard.†“Hate to disappoint, son. But whatever it was, it happened when they were searching the rooms a few nights ago. Whatever Medic saw, Soldier didn’t. An’ Medic won’t talk about it.†“Being a little Lord Fauntleroy again, is he?†“He’s in one of his moods, yeah,†Engineer huffed. “But I’m worried. I ain’t no psychiatrist, but he’s as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.†“Wot would make him nervous?†“I dunno.†Engineer sighed. “Maybe… maybe he is just upset. We did just lose three of our oldest. And he and Heavy were, you know… close…†Yeah, close. Crisco close. “Well, maybe. But hell, Truckie, I’ll bet my hat that he’s lost more people than you or I ever will. He’s German, remember? And he seemed okay with it, all of it. Ya’ know?†Engineer nodded. “Until this place.†“Well…†Sniper trailed off. “Now that you mention it, yeah, but he’d say something if it was dangerous, wouldn’t he? He’s not gonna to stick his neck out without good reason. †“True, true,†Engineer paused. “But this place’s got him spooked, like it reminds him of something.†Sniper grunted. Yah, like an overly organized work camp. “Well, I can tell you wot this place reminds me of.†“Don’t you start that again, mister!†Engineer gave Sniper the mom face and wagged a reproaching finger. “The war was a helluva long time ago, ya’ here? He’s been a straight shooter with us, and neither of us rightfully knows for sure what went on back then. If yer right, it’s punishment enough that it reminds him of that hell too, so let it be.†“Aigh, aigh, sorry,†Sniper exhaled. Engineer grunted. “Both of you have been acting mighty strange around each other for a good while now. What’s happening between you two, anyways?†Sniper felt his cheeks flush – he quickly faked a sneeze. “It was nuthin’, just an argument.†“Just an argument? About what?†“I said it was nothing,†Sniper spat. “Okay, okay. Lord, both of you are just as right as wet cats today.†Sniper snorted. “You and your damn cats today.†Engineer walked in silence. The snapping lights and the imposing darkness did little to ease Sniper’s claustrophobia, but at least the place was starting to get warmer. Warmer, but not dryer: the typical dry heat that the radiators were supposed to emit was instead clammy and sour, like hot breath. The baseboard radiators practically wheezed as Sniper passed, their humid vapours saturating his already sweat-soaked shirt. Biting his lip, he stared at the back of Pyro’s platinum moptop in the distance – the pommy bastard didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the flickering lights, nor the dark rooms, nor the damn breathing radiators… As Sniper mulled over his wet shirt, a light wisp of air brushed past his face, stroking his cheeks with its sticky touch. Everything was clinging to him — the dust, the air, his shirt — and it all felt like it had a life of its own. A trickle of sweat skittered down the front of his shirt, tickling like little insect feet. Sniper violently rubbed his face and chest. Maybe he walked through a spider web? Ugh. Finally the narrow hallway was coming to an end. Past Pyro the corridor widened, opening into a crossroad-like atrium. On adjacent sides of the circular room a pair of benches leaned up against the cement walls, each covered in a thick layer of dust. Further past them was a wide arch that branched off into varying passageways. In the middle of the junction stood what once would have been a bright yellow fountain had it not been covered in thick layers of rust, calcium and lime. The fountain was busted, but its mosaic tiled basin still had about an inch of water left in it; water the colour of old blood. What the blasted fuck? But no one else seemed to give a damn. Medic was nonchalantly ordering Soldier and Demoman around: set down the ammunition crates ‘ere, start making makeshift barricades out of the wooden and metal crates ‘ere… “Empty zem first, Dummkopfs,†Medic snapped, pinching the bride of his nose. Heavy and Scout started emptying the crates, stashing the armaments and ballistics behind the thick base of the fountain. “Gorblimey, wot are ya doin’?!†Pyro gave Sniper a perplexed ogle as he spat out the fountain water. “I was tasting the water,†he said simply. “Not to worry, it is just rust, not blood.†Sniper didn’t know what to make of that. The tone of Pyro’s voice made it sound like his tasting method was the most reasonable thing in the world to do. “Did it taste good?†Sniper asked incredulously. “Oh, no,†Pryo giggled. “Don’t go bunkers on me now, old chap.†Suddenly the hall filled with an inhuman moan. The thunderous groans and shrill whines of settling steel echoed down the corridors. Even before the sound petered out, Demo was armed with a shotgun, Spy had disappeared, and Sniper’s hands had shot up over his head. “No, no, no, blasted piss!†This was it, the entire place was coming down on their heads. “It’s okay, boys! It’s okay!†Engineer laughed. “It’s just air moving through the old vents, it’s a good sound. If it gets quiet, then you have something to worry about.†Sniper opened his eyes – he hadn’t even realized they were closed. Medic and Soldier were still unpacking like nothing had even happened. Scout was swearing as Heavy nodded thoughtfully to himself. Spy had decloaked with a soft electric snap, a red shimmer gliding over his lithe frame as he reappeared as if from thin air. Naturally, he looked calm and in control, the glint of his balisong’s blade disappearing into its handle. Sniper rubbed his arms as he carefully examined the walls and ceilings for cracks – his nerves were all afire, like a shorting electrical wire. God, how was anybody gonna get any sleep around here with that racket going on? Why was everyone else not jumping out of their skin? And there was Pyro, staring intently into the hall behind Sniper, eyes wide and jaw set. Not unlike a cat spotting a bird. Spinning on his heels, Sniper snapped his head around while reaching for his rifle on the dolly. One of the doorways in the distance was open – opening – a grey mass disappearing into the darkness. What was it? It was too far away to be sure. He chambered a round, eyeing the door through the scope – had he truly seen something? It was movement; that he knew for sure. As if on queue he heard the rest of his team jump into action. With a snap he knew Spy had once again cloaked. He caught Engineer in his peripheral vision, ducking behind a crate with a pistol in his hand. Sniper kept his sight on the doorframe, hiding the lazer dot on it. “Wot did ya see, Pyro?†Pyro was behind him now; he could hear his wet breathing. “What did…I? Did you see something?†Right, he was crazy. “Yah, I did.†“Pyro, get back with Heavy, Scout and the doctor,†Engineer ordered. “Can’t risk you boys getting hurt just yet.†“Whaddaya mean?!†Scout blustered. “I’m here to crack skulls, ain’t I?†“I said t’ get back, boy!†Engineer growled. “You need to be hooked up before ya fight, ya hear?†“Hooked up? Hooked up to what?†“Ve vill explain later!†Medic barked. Sniper felt Medic take the place of Pyro. “Fess… die Rotznase…†From the right Soldier and Demo entered the scope’s vision, shotguns in hand – Soldier had, surprisingly, done the smart thing and had duct-taped a flashlight to his gun. “CHARGE!†Soldier kicked open the door. The sounds of thrown furniture and shouting followed, but nothing tried to exit the room. After a few more loud exclamations and an assumed attempt at upturning a filing cabinet, Soldier and Demo exited the room. “It’s clear!†Soldier barked down the hallway. “Aye, ‘ere’s nuthin’ in ‘ere,†Demoman added. “Wot?†Sniper whispered to himself. “Then where did it go?†“What did you see, exactly?†Spy rematerialized in front of him. “I… It was grey.†“Like the door?†“No!†Sniper couldn’t believe this. “No, I didn’t see the door! It crawled and moved the door!†“Pyro?†Spy turned towards the lunatic. “What did you see?†Pyro made a face – half a face. His mismatched eyes still staring down the hallway. Light from the fountain danced over the blending of craggy and smooth features, accentuating both the beauty and horror in his split face. “See?†he said, his rasping voice sliding into that mumbling giggle of his. “I see many things, and at varying times throughout the day.†Spy sighed. “And at that precise moment?†Pyro shook his head, a thin smile of disbelief tugging on his lip. “Well, at that precise moment, I thought I saw a misshapen man peek at us from behind that very door. Once it noticed me staring, it decided to disappear back into the darkness from whence it came, sliding on the withered stumps it had for legs.†“Exactly ‘ow long were you staring at it for?†Sniper sputtered. “And its colour?†Spy spoke over Sniper’s surprise. “Like the blenched blue tinge one typically sees in either the very sick, or conversely, the deceased.†“What the fuck, man?†Scout said. “You saying it was a dead guy?†“Typically the dead do not walk, thus the former is more likely to be the case.†Scout just looked on, confused by Pyro’s overly-proper speech. He was just like every other bloody limey Sniper had ever met – prattling on like some high and mighty lord ready to declare you a simpleton. “And yet we find nothing,†Spy continued. “So it would appear,†Pyro nodded. “This leaves us in a bit of a sticky-wicket, doesn’t it?†“Wasn’t a ghost, was it?†Demoman butted in. “Bloody ‘ell, it was a ghost, weren’t it?†“I would have to suggest you direct further queries at someone with a firm grasp on reality.†Pyro gestured briefly towards Sniper as he paced around the fountain, hugging himself. “Aye, but you saw it.†“I’m afraid that what I saw is not in question here. My current state of mind is still under the influence of a psychotropic cocktail — many of the neuroleptic agents in it list visual and aural hallucinations as a temporary symptom of their discontinued use.†Sniper glared at Pyro. Way to use your insanity to divert attention from yourself, ya pommy bastard. Spy gave Pyro a quick once over before walking over to Sniper. “Are you sure you saw something?†he whispered, his expression thoughtful, calm. Sniper hated that look. “I saw wot I saw!†Sniper spat, eyeing every teammate in turn. “I can see better than any of you pikers, and don’t you forget it!†“Zhen vat did you see?†Medic hissed. “It was small. Maybe it was an animal.†Yeah, an animal. Small, grey, moves quickly and can easily disappear. “An animal?†Soldier said. “Yah, an animal,†Sniper returned. “Unless you’d rather believe it was a misshapen midget with ‘withered stumps’ for legs!†“I think you are losing your mind, bushman!†Soldier barked back. “This is no petting zoo! And it’s not a circus! You two have your frilly limey training bras in scared little knots and are jumping at bogymen!†“Says the drongo who can’t see his hand in front of his own face!†Sniper said, pointing at Soldier’s oversized helmet. “It’s probably still in that room!†He found himself leaning towards Soldier with his hands balled into fists, ready to sock him in that Neanderthal jaw of his. “Enough, dagnabbit, enough!†Engineer forced his squat frame between the two bickering men. “What are we, school girls? Stop this racket!†Soldier snorted and puffed his chest. His stout frame was solid with muscles, and he was flexing every bloody one of them for Sniper’s benefit. Spy gently lowered Sniper’s wrists, telling him it was just nerves. Sniper exhaled. What was he thinking, anyway? That brute would break him in half before he even got one solid hit in. “Jeez Louise, what has come over this team?†Engineer’s voice was the perfect mix of motherly reproach and angry boss. “We got a job to do.†Engineer pointed at the crates by the fountain. “Soldier, finish unpacking and set up those barricades with Demo like Medic dun and told ya.†He turned towards Pyro. “Ye new kids stick with Medic and get yerselves to the kitchen. And you sir, you are with me.†Engineer finished, jabbing a finger square at Sniper’s chest. Sniper opened his mouth to argue but instead growled. Spy was probably right: it was just his nerves, his phobia. “Well where is this bloody thing going then?†Sniper huffed, grabbing hold of the dolly’s rails. “We are taking it, and you, to the Sun Room to cool yer heels.†Engineer grabbed his dolly and made a beeline towards the central corridor. “Giddy up, darlin’!†With a grunt Sniper got his dolly moving forward. Sun room? Well, that sounded nice.
I swear to go I read that already. At least parts of it. Either way, I can't wait to find out what happens next!
A rough version of it was on my website, you might have read it there. :)
That's probably it! You are gonna write more, yes?
of course :) its just taking a bit because I am taking 4 essay courses in school this year - I have so many papers I just don't have the time to sit and write a good chapter. Lots of time to plan and develop, however. Hopefully the upcoming chapters will be better because of it.
What's this doing down here? Bump.
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