Yikes. Should have been working on "Drop Kick Me, Jesus." Oh, well. I wanted to play around with more weird imagery. Plus, I always wondered what would happen if the Spy's brain fried out. Sprinkle a little Middle Eastern imagery in there, and what do you get? It's not Baklava. Also, this weapon? Always kills me. It's awesome, but it's also a pain in my backside. /***/ Anticipation clouded the Soldier's mind, churning and gritty, smothering his anxiety and rage. He wanted to be mad. He wanted steam to shoot out of his ears and nostrils, for his skin to boil red. What should have been blind anger and frustration was replaced with hollow, stinging pity. Yes, he felt sorry for that poor bastard. They all had snapped from time to time, all had their little episodes, but this? This was horrifying. That man was terrified, unaware of the awful acts that he had committed. He didn't know what he was doing. Some awful demon had overtaken him, using him like any tool. If any man was going to rescue him, it was going to have to be the bravest, strongest guy on the team. Which, in the Soldier's opinion, was himself. Of course. "Gentlemen, Miss Pauling, I'm not going to lie to you." The Soldier hefted the box in his arms, which contained the tools he would need for his interrogation. "This is going to be tricky. I'm going to need each and every one of you to follow my plan down to the letter." His three assistants were quick to comply. It wasn't hard to get the Demoman or the Heavy on board with his schemes. Miss Pauling was more skeptical, but at this point, she was willing to help them along. It would do them no good to leave the crazed man as he was. If they couldn't figure out what had made him snap, then that would be it for this team. Just three sane men. The amount of curb stomping that would take place would be abysmal. Even if the Administrator could find six replacements this very night, it would take weeks to train new team members. It would be better for everyone involved to find out what that lunatic had done to incapacitate two thirds of the team. More importantly, how to save them from—from whatever had happened to them. "Aye, Cap'n. Wish ya could explain how a tea set's supposed ta help, though," the Demoman said. "Is strange, da. But, Soldier has other plans too?" The Heavy crossed his arms. "Is worth a shot. Anything to save little men." The Soldier gave him a sharp nod. "Atta boy, Ruskie. We're going to need you to keep this door shut, no matter what. Don't let anyone through until Miss Pauling gives you the all clear." "I suppose I'd better get to a safe area, then. I'll buzz you when I have the security tapes ready," Miss Pauling said. "Very good." The Soldier turned his attention to the Demoman. "What do you say, Tavish? With me on this one?" The Demoman removed his beanie. He scratched the scalp below dark, curly hair. "I dunno. I don't want ta be in the room with that psycho. Suppose the poor lad can't help it, though." Hefting the cardboard box into his left arm, the Soldier gave Tavish a pat on the shoulder. "I'm counting on you for this one. You saw how that bastard came into possession of that damn thing, after all. Maybe you can jog his memory." "I suppose. Doesn't mean I have ta like it," the Demoman said, placing his beanie back on his head. The Soldier agreed with that sentiment. "Didn't say you had to." He sucked in a quick breath, then barked his command. "Alright! To your positions, ladies." Miss Pauling bolted for her office. The men waited for her to step out of sight before opening the door to the room where they held their prisoner. The Heavy pushed both the Scotsman and the American in, slamming the door shut behind them. There was a thump as the Heavy pushed his back against the doorway, using his plentiful mass as a blockade. Tavish locked them in, keeping his eye on the man in the room. Nobody could risk taking their gaze off him. Not anymore. Prior to the conversion to the room's current state, it used to be the recreation room. The television was off, its antenna bent at awkward angles. It looked like the prisoner had been playing pool, but the cues and balls had been collected and placed in neat rows. Magazines were left in a pile on the coffee table. Most were two to three months old, but a good majority of them were also gentlemen's magazines. Printed breasts did not lose their relevance quite as quickly as celebrity gossip. The boxed-in man had taken to reading a comic book instead, crinkling his nose at the hammy material. He turned his attention to his interrogators, giving them a grin that was oddly sly, considering his bucked teeth. "Hello, simpletons," the Scout said. The Demoman scratched his head. Boy, was that American lad screwed up. He took a recliner, readjusting it to face the Scout. The Soldier followed in turn, gently placing his box down next to the coffee table. He retrieved the first of his items from the box. It was a wooden, hexagonal container, painted with cranes and some Japanese family's crest. The Solder lifted the lid, revealing milky white and blue tea cups. He lifted a Thermos from the cardboard box, pouring its contents into three of the cups. He passed them in turn to his teammates. None of them hesitated to drink. "Good brew," the Demoman smiled. "Didn't think ya like tea." The Soldier nodded. "After my successful campaign against the Germans, I spent some time in Japan. If you want to survive there, you'd better like tea. Or sake, I suppose. Sapporo's got some decent beer, too." The Scout raised an eyebrow, finishing his sip. "Not bad. Some kinda fancy foreign stuff? Didn't think that was your style, soldier-boy." Neither the Demoman nor the Soldier acknowledged the Bostonian's slipping accent. They had to ease him into this. Too much information at once could fry out his brain. God help them if that happened. Then their teammates would truly be lost forever. They would have to be gentle, slow in placing their evidence. The Soldier laid their first card down. "Scout, when in the hell did you start drinking tea?" This confused the prisoner. He cocked his head to the side. "Well, I—I guess I—well, damn. I don't remember." He shook his head, scrunching up his face. "Like you can remember every little damn thing." "Laddy, I can't remember ya even drinken' water!" The Demoman laughed. It was better to mask his accusation underneath a jest. "Can't say I've ever seen ya do it either, Scrumpy breath." The Scout placed his tea cup onto the coffee table. "So, when are ya drongos gonna let me outta here?" He was getting antsy. Time to draw him back in. The Soldier ignored his question, gesturing instead to the comic book the Bostonian had been reading. "What's that one about?" The Scout shrugged, giving a short grunt. "Some Bonk Boy one. Not really all that good, mein chumps. Dumb blondes fallen off 'a bridges and stuff. Ain't been good since—since—" He paused for a moment, trying to think of the right year. Thirty eight? No, he'd started reading in fifty seven. Or was it forty nine? His thoughts went on for a bit longer this time. His eyes started glazing over, the little men in his mind rifling through dusty tomes in the back of his brain. The Demoman frowned, turning his attention to the Soldier. The Midwesterner leaned forward, his hands folded with his chin resting on them. Was this working, or was the Scout's noodle frying up? He couldn't let the prisoner's brain unravel before the poor fellow could realize what was going on. The Soldier had been planning to save this for later, but considering how baffled the Scout was, he had to get to the point quickly. He looked over to the Demoman, lowering his eyebrows. The Scotsman nodded in return. The Soldier turned his attention to the cardboard box, discarding piles of other evidence. The birth certificates, family photos, and journals would not do. He had to show the Scout this item. He thought his hands would melt as he picked up the diabolical weapon. As the Soldier slammed the item blade-down into the coffee table, the Scout's eyes flashed. His hands began to tremble, his upper lip slightly pulled back. Lovely. So he could remember this. The Demoman felt chills run down his back at the sight of the object. Having been routinely cursed and haunted all of his life, he knew what it was like to be in the presence of an evil item. This object—this weapon—oh, it was beautiful. It had a hilt created from the bark of a tree long since dead. Even so, it smelt intoxicating and sweet, like roses and jasmine. It was laced with opal and gold, winding trails like ivy up to the hilt. The blade itself was knick-free, silver and brilliant as moonlight. This weapon could have fallen from heaven itself, if it didn't possess such demonic power. The Soldier reached across the table, cupping the Scout's face. He lowered his voice. "You remember this, don't you?" What surprised the duo was that the Scout didn't reach for the knife and stab them both. Instead, he cried out, flinging himself against the sofa. The howl he gave was awful, strained. It had the wrong tone for his vocal chords. There was a shuffle at the door as the Heavy sat up outside, startled by the scream. Yet, there was nothing he could do. The Soldier's next question rendered the prisoner mute. "Where did you get this knife, Spy?" /***/ It had been a bright, blistering day, something hotter than any of the fair summer days he was used to. They had been in Casablanca. No, Istanbul. Or was it Baghdad? Why couldn't he remember? He recalled peeling his suit jacket away, the way his white dress shirt stuck to his skin. The sand gave way with a pleasant drag beneath his shoes. The city stunk of flesh baking in the hot sun—carved meats, human skin, the backs of horses and camels. They all culminated into one foul funk. With the stench and the sun bearing down on him, he had little patience for his companions. The Demoman had been complaining about the heat, but he'd disappeared as soon as he'd come across some shady fellows in white hoods selling sulfur-based explosives. The Sniper had been quiet, at least. He was lost somewhere further back in the black market, haggling with a weathered mercenary over the price of his grandfather's jezail. The Spy wasn't sure why he'd come to this place at all. It hadn't been an entirely miserable experience, although he would have rather travelled on his own. They had to be due back to the United States any day now. What had he seen? Where had they stayed? What were the people like? The women? Surely, anything else on this trip had to have been more pleasant than this stinking, sweltering marketplace. When he had been the most frustrated, the most irritable, that little man appeared. He wasn't sure where the little man had come from. It was as if he stepped from behind an invisible veil, perhaps birthed by the shadows and sand. The man stood no more than five feet tall, his back ruined by bone loss and poor posture. His fingers were thin, gnarled, more suited for a spider. The little man gave the Spy a crooked grin, the teeth in his mouth jutting just a little bit at the wrong angles. He could not see the man's eyes, but that smile was all that the Spy would ever need to identify that man. "I have not seen one like you for many years," the little man said. The Spy wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. "Oh?" The little man wobbled next to the Frenchman, his knees unable to keep whatever weight he had balanced properly. "Your walk. Your face. You meander as though you were a peacock strutting through a pig pen." Perhaps the Spy could be a little arrogant from time to time, but he didn't like when it was pointed out. "Do you have any other insults you wish to share?" "Ha! My friend, I did not mean to get under your skin." The little man clapped a rigid hand on the Spy's shoulder. "Perhaps I can make it up to you." The shady man slipped his other hand into his robes. The Spy winced, afraid of what the fellow was going to pull out of there. The man retrieved the item under his cloak, then passed it to the Spy for his appraisal. For something pulled out of a rude stranger's armpit, it was splendid. The handle and sheath were swirled with winding patterns, both cleaned and undamaged. The Spy pulled the knife from its cover, his eyes widening. He'd never seen such metalwork like this. The blade's substance shimmered in the sunlight. It certainly was an elegant weapon. "I assume zis is not a functional piece," the Spy murmured. The little man shook his head. "No, my friend. It cuts through flesh with an arc as smooth as the crescent moon." "You are good at marketing. I will give you zat." The Spy flipped the blade around. "I have many weapons zat are just as functional." "Ah, but where any weapon can take a life, it takes a truly powerful blade to steal one's soul," the little man said. Now this struck the Spy as a peculiar boast, if not an outright lie. Sure, he had tools that would take the form of his enemies. To steal souls, though? What sort of claim was that? "Pardon me if I do not believe you." "It is said that many sultans and princes have used this blade, all to obtain the wisdom and features of their most sage and handsome foes." The shady man grinned, tipping his head upwards to reveal the tip of his broad nose. "For a man who hides a face like yours, dear traveler, what would be a more perfect weapon?" This statement, however overly embellished, did fan the Spy's interest. "Very well. Name your price." "Not very good at bargaining, are you?" The old man laughed, his cackling dry and raspy. "For you, though, I will give a good price." He couldn't remember the deal that he struck with the strange man from the black market. It could have been in dinars. Liras. Maybe even in silver. That would have been fitting. All he could remember was how good that weapon had felt in his hands. Not in a mild way, like how a warm bath or a light stroll could be pleasing. It was powerful, beautiful, as if every wondrous force of nature had been squeezed into his palm. What luck. "Now you know, my friend, I must warn you." The little man drew the Spy closer, whispering through thin lips. "You must never let this blade taste blood. For now, it is slumbering." "You have sold zis to me as a weapon, yet you say I cannot use it. I can't help but zink I've been swindled," the Spy replied. "All I have said is true, my friend. Many men were led to victory thanks to this weapon." The little man's voice lowered, decreasing into a dark growl. "They have also lost their own souls to this blade. Only a true and honorable man can use this knife without succumbing to its power. It is better not to tempt the serpent with music." The Spy smirked as he tucked the blade away. "I zink I can control myself." "I hope you can, my friend," the little man said. Every moment from then on was swallowed up by sand and blood.
Jesus fuck I will never look at that weapon the same way again. TELL me you are continuing this. It's wonderful. So well-written, and the concept just draws me in so deeply. I yearn for more. I really do.
Oh my! I have to say, i wasn't sure how gracefully a fanfiction like this would start, but you did it splendidly. This is really good. I look forward to an update.
You have me waiting on the edge of my seat. I am utterly enthralled, I anticipate reading the next installment.
Wow, this is really well-written. I got all tense while I was reading it. I've actually pondered about the YER before, so seeing it used in such an interesting way is very satisfying. I'll be checking for an update!
It might be a couple of weeks until I can post to this, but I will continue it. You know how it goes with Christmas.
Couple weeks. Ten days. Accurate time predictions are optional; victory is not. /***/ The Spy had kept his word. When he returned from his vacation, he had the Engineer set up a mount for the weapon. It made for an interesting objet d'art in his room. There were times where he took it down, even practiced a little playful fencing, but he never brought it to battle. Every time he held it, though, it took him more time to return it to its cradle. Sometimes, the knife felt warm, shuddering with the beat of his heart. It was as natural to his body as his own hands. That rumbling would overwhelm him, freeze him for moments in place. There were times when his heart would race so fast, when even the tiniest of vibrations on his eardrums seemed like perfect music. Even then, he did not use it as a weapon. It drew blood all the same. A double-mouthed dragon had entered his room in search of a letter opener. The Spy never knew what it was about. It could have been a heart-felt greeting card from the dragon's granny. Maybe it was just Publishers Clearing House. Whatever was in that envelope was not important. What was more important was that the Pyro was using his knife to open it. "Imbecile! Don't touch zat!" The Spy had tried to stop him. Like the spindle to a princess's finger, so did the knife doom the Pyro with the most innocent of injuries. The Spy's warning had startled him just enough to draw the blade across the envelope, through his suit, and into his left hand. The slice wasn't all that painful. More irritating than anything, nothing greater than a paper cut. Still, the tiniest drop of blood landed on that silvery blade. The Spy yanked the knife away from the Pyro. "Give me zat, you insufferable abomi—" There was a shudder from the blade. It was as if the knife had taken its first breath, as if its heart just restarted. The Spy's mind was overcome instantly. Color drained from his world, melting into shimmering puddles on the ground. Grey smoke flooded his small room. The Pyro's body burned white-hot in front of him, his suit and form disappearing into a blaze. He could see through his teammate's body, watching as fresh blood pumped in circuits around his glowing form, always returning to the black lump in the middle of his body. Thumping threatened to blow out his ears. He had to make it stop. He had to—he had to! The action was smooth, quick. The Spy plunged the dagger into the Pyro's heart. If his teammate screamed, he could not hear it over the pounding in his head. He drew the blade back, warmth traveling through his fingertips and into the knife's hilt. As the last of the weapon slipped out of the Pyro, the Spy changed. A shell dropped away from him, his old body disappearing in a burst of dust. Everything snapped back to normal, save for himself. He looked over his hands, studied the new clothes on his body. He felt heavier, shorter, dumpier. There was a constant craving, the need to set things alight. And yet, he was himself. He had his mind, his memories. There was just a little something more, a small candle burning in the center of his brain. "Vell, daw wun?" No, that wouldn't do. He had to be understood. The Spy fidgeted with the mask around his face. The black material was unyielding. Where did it end? Could it be removed? The Spy struggled, every movement heavy and encumbered. He found himself hyperventilating, his breath tasting metallic from the mask's dual muzzles. Even though he wore his balaclava every day, that could be removed. This felt like skin. He began to rip at the suit's arms. He snapped at the suspenders around his chest, pulled at the flares attached to them. Nothing was coming off. His body grew hot, the suit prickling with goose bumps. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't get out of this infernal suit! He panicked, his body choking and bulbous, every breath trapped in his lungs. He was burning up, swelling like a star, ready to burst into a nova. He would have screamed if he hadn't passed out. /***/ "Spy! When I talk, you will answer me! Is that clear, maggot?" The Spy—no, the Scout—huffed back at the Soldier. "I ain't the Spy!" "You're not doin' a good job a proven' it to us, laddy," the Demoman said. "Why should I have ta prove myself? I'm the innocent party here!" The Scout leaned forward, the couch creaking beneath him. "You two wanna gang up on me and have yous-selves a little prosecutin' party, you go right for it! But I shouldn't have ta be provin' my innocence!" The Soldier grumbled. The kid—no, Frenchie—had a point. Maybe the Constitution didn't come out and outright declare presumption of innocence, but the Fifth, Sixth, and Fourteenth Amendments did support his claim. He thought of himself as a fair man. Perhaps not the best lawyer or a judge, but reasonable enough. He still had evidence, though. The Soldier rocked back. "So, you drink tea, and the Scout doesn't like tea. You hate those comics you were reading, and yet the Scout likes them. How am I supposed to think you are the Scout?" "A man's got evolven' tastes. Maybe I've just grown up a little," the Scout responded. The Demoman sighed. "Fine, lad. If you are the Scout, then you can tell us a little about yourself, can't ya?" The Scout shot upright. "Are you kidden'? What if you two dinks are 'a part 'a the other team? I can't tell ya nothin'!" "Oh, for the love of Lady Liberty." The Soldier raised his head to the ceiling, trying to suppress the urge to punch him until he shape-shifted back into the Spy. Following his country's ideals did not always come easily to the hot-blooded American. Lucky for him, the Scotsman had a little more patience. "Fine, then. We'll wait fer the tapes." "The tapes?" the Scout asked. "Aye. Just as soon as Miss Pauling's ready," the Demoman replied. A tinny, rattling sound interrupted them. "The first clip is ready, Mister DeGroot. I was waiting for a good point to interrupt." The Scout panicked for half a second, thinking the voice was coming from inside of his skull. He felt confused enough as it was. He was empty and full, heavy and thin, his organs quarreling with themselves. There was a fog building in his head, migraines crying for attention. His right hand moved, but he had no control over the limb. It moved towards the Demoman, grasping for one moment around his sleeve. As soon as he realized what he'd done, the Scout yanked his hand back. The Scotsman said nothing, his frown deepening. The Scout hissed, irritated and embarrassed. "Would you just show me the damn thing already? Geez, make a guy wait. Schweinhunds." "I've just about got this set up." The Soldier flipped on the television set. He twisted a knob on the right-hand side. "What channel should I be on? Stupid piece of—oh! There we go." The feed coming through the television jolted a part of the Scout's brain. There he was. No, that was the Pyro. Wasn't it? He was lying on a gurney in the infirmary, staring at the ceiling. He was motionless. If he Scout didn't know any better, he would think that the man was dead. There was a soft sound as a door closed off camera. The Medic walked over to the Pyro, investigating the resting man and writing notes on his clipboard. Several doves landed on his shoulder, all interested in his studies. He shooed them away once, but the stubborn birds returned. They were all little medical students, perhaps even nurses. The Medic strolled away for one moment, brushing his one stray curl aside and continuing his routine. It was then that the Pyro awoke from his slumber. He sat upright, slowly adjusting his spine until his back and his legs made a right angle. He did not move any other parts of his body as he did this. His arms remained fastened at his side, legs locked at the knees. The Medic turned his attention towards the Pyro, his lips speaking friendly words that were all too familiar to the Scout. Even so, he couldn't clearly hear them through the static of the tape. Either that, or the sparking in his head. The Scout rested his elbows against his knees, his limbs trembling. Somehow, he knew what was coming next, and that made his anticipation all the worse. /***/ "You are a lucky man," the Medic told him. What a mockery that was. The Spy rotated his body, legs dropping off the side of the bed. They fell to the floor, thudding. He was still in this awful, sweaty suit, shorter and fatter than he had been. His flesh was melting from his bones, pooling around his gut. He had to get out of the Pyro's suit. No, his body. His silence must have unnerved the German. His doctor stopped for a moment, making only one brief scribble in his notes. "Ze Heavy found you unconscious in ze Spy's room. I vould have asked him what happened, but ve have not found him yet." Of course not. His previous body was nothing more than dust on the floor. Maybe if it was lucky, it would be blown into the wind and carried to some wonderful place. The Spy pondered suicide for a moment. Would he be back in his body, then? Or would he be trapped inside this fleshy vault? He said nothing, seething behind the mask affixed permanently to his face. His blood began boiling again. Perhaps if he'd take the Medic's body, he could— "Humph," the Spy said. The Medic took it as an affirmation of his story. Instead, it was the sound of a pondering, plotting man. Stabbing the Pyro had been bad enough. Going for the Medic? That was all sorts of evil. He could keep his charade up for the rest of time, hide his little crime away behind this suit. If he took the Medic's form, he would be caught flat out. There was only so much knowledge he could bluff. May the fates have mercy on his team if he ever had to perform any complicated procedures! He rested his head on his hands, his tongue aching for a cigarette. He still had a tongue behind this monstrous visage. How surprising. "At any rate, I vould take it easy, if I vere you." The Medic sat down on a stool. He continued his notes, a dove nipping at his pen as he wrote. "Heat exhaustion is very common around here, und I should zink zat—Archimedes, bitte!—you vould be very susceptible to it, vat viz ihre Asbestanzug und all." The Spy nodded. This suit did make him weak. That was something he could agree to. He threw himself off the gurney, landing on rubbery stumps. The Medic lifted an eyebrow. "Feeling better, zen?" "Mmm hmm," the Spy agreed. The knife was there at his hand. Where he had kept it, he did not know. It was simply there, like he'd been born with it. He rushed the Medic, shoving him off his stool and onto the tiled floor. The good doctor fought back, smashing the Spy across his strange face with his clipboard. Doves rushed their master's attacker. They pecked at his suit, withdrawing with confusion. The Spy laughed, watching blood come from fresh wounds. It was his skin, after all. The Frenchman pressed his left elbow into the Medic's throat. His victim gurgled back, finger clutched around the Spy's throat. Heat coursed through his body. He could feel the Medic's pulse through his gloves, flittering and timid. The Spy slipped the blade over the Medic's chest, then plunged. The Medic tried to call for help, his jaws wide in fright. No noise escaped his mouth. His eyes closed, then his head rolled to the side. Beneath the layers of rubber, a pang of empathy went off in the Spy's black, stolen heart. As he withdrew the dagger, the Spy felt a muddling sensation overtake him. He fell face-forward, landing in a pile of dust softer than down. He was now clothed in the Medic's body. It was wonderful to have as his own. He could feel air on his face. Hell, just having a face was impressive enough! The Spy pulled himself onto his knees, studying his hands. They were covered in gloves, the tips stained with years of use. He pulled against them, finding another set-back. They stayed put as well. Yes, he had this wonderful body, but he was forever clothed in the doctor's uniform. How disappointing. Still, breathing fresh air brought joy to the Spy. He sat upright, enjoying a warm buzz enveloping him. His blood felt cleaner, his organs stronger. His brain was floating somewhere in an opium cloud, pleased with this new kill. Ah, how wonderful. Delightful. How— "Ouch!" The Spy yelped. What the hell was that? He felt something hot run across his nose. Blood? What had done—oh. He knew the culprit's name. Archimedes. He glanced upwards, finding the bird perched on his gurney. That little bastard! He was going to show him a thing or two! To disobey his master— The Spy stood up, now aware of his mistake. Hundreds of eyes were watching him. Doves on beds. Doves on medical equipment. Pantries, the Medic's desk, bookcases, file cabinets. They were everywhere, black eyes studying the Spy with the scrutiny of ancient judges. No, with the indignation of a forgotten goddess. She united them, judging his selfishness and immorality. That lively heart in his chest shuddered. Even if the Spy did not know what was going on, the tiny part of him that was the Medic was preparing a retreat. The flock descended on their former master. He withdrew his blade, not wanting to pierce any of their breasts and take their forms. The Spy held a hand over his eyes, stumbling and crawling from the infirmary. He slammed the door shut behind him, the Medic's flock still enraged. They pecked and scratched at the door, soft cooing now a cry for war. Annoying birds. He reached for a nearby chair in the waiting room, then jammed it underneath the door. The Spy stood back, triumphant over his attackers. He wondered for a moment if they knew what trouble they would be in if their precious Medic didn't let them free. He smiled, considering what to do with them. Perhaps pluck them bald? Roast them? Sacrifice them to his master? The Spy shook his ill-gotten head. His master? He dabbed his forehead, pushing that impish curl aside. He was just tired. That was all. It couldn't be easy jumping from body to body like this all the time. He'd have to settle down. At least he was in a fairly healthy body. Sure, the non-removable clothing was a problem, but as long as he didn't get dirty, it wouldn't be a huge issue. Still, a little run to the restroom wouldn't hurt. He'd won such a pleasing face. He might as well admire it for a while.
Excellent. I had been hoping for a new chapter of Drop Kick Me Jesus but this story is turning out great too!
I was so excited to see an update, you have no idea. I love your writing style, it's very poetic. Looking forward to seeing what happens next!
Ho man, words cannot describe how much I am loving this story.
Jesus fuck I'm scared for the rest of the team. At the same time, can't wait to see what happens to everyone. Plus, how they're gonna fix this whole thing- if they even can! Me likey.
Swear to God. I was working on "Drop Kick Me, Jesus." I think I made it about five hundred words in, then I came back to this. I think I will just have to fight it out with this story before I can go back. There's more after this part, but that's for another day. Unless you want a dark ending. Then you can just stop reading after this part. As for me--I will continue with a little bit more. Start questioning my sexuality in three...two...one... /***/ Now that he wasn't being suffocated by his form, the Spy began to enjoy the world around him. Everything was fresh, colorful. He felt light-headed, like a fever was rolling over his brain. That didn't matter. He felt fulfilled, proud of his work. It was warm, the floor radiating waves of heat. Flowers grew out of the windows, bowing their blossoms as he passed. He stopped at one, inhaling the rose's intoxicating scent. He lifted his eyes, staring out the window into the courtyard below. Peasants scurried back and forth, unloading a caravan's boxes and bundles. He smiled, wondering who was there. "Doc? Ya doin' okay?" The Spy didn't jump at his new name. A good mirage never reveals its true form. He cocked his head to the left, frowning. Just the Engineer. He smelt dirty, spicy. Probably from an honest day's work, no doubt. That wasn't going to help him, though, was it? He wasn't ever going to feel this wonderful. The Spy let his head roll. "I am fine. Und you?" His new words were strange, guttural. Not pretty, but functional. The peasant sighed. "I'm kinda—well, doesn't matter. Tech problems." "I see." The Spy feigned a helpful offer. "Is zere anyzing zat would require my assistance?" "No. Just having a fight with the computers." The Engineer leaned against the next window frame, his nose buried in a narcissus bloom. "Have ya seen the Spy or the Pyro?" The Spy lifted his—well, the Medic's—eyebrows. "Nein." The Engineer nodded. He backed out of the frame. He was weary, his lips pursed. "Keep an eye out, would ya? Respawn's acting funny." "I hope nozing serious," the Spy said. He hadn't thought about that. How did his dagger affect the respawn generator? Was the Pyro on the move? Goodness knows that he wouldn't stand a moment against that man's purifying blaze. What if he told the other teammates about what the Spy had done? He chewed on his cheek with his perfect, pearly teeth. There was always one thing or another that would sneak up and bite him. "It's the weirdest thing." The Engineer shook his head, not sure what to say. "Says they have no health, but it doesn't say they're dead. Weird, ain't it? What could cause it ta do that?" The Spy frowned. "You haven't forced a respawn, have you?" The Engineer puffed air. "Naw. Don't wanna mess with these things 'till ya nail the problems down. One time, I tried ta fix a problem with the Scout's template. Thought I'd just respawn him until I got it right. Ended up respawnin' him inside out, on a couple 'a occasions." "Disgusting," the Spy said. The strange word caught the Engineer's attention. He frowned, tilting his head to the side. The Spy realized his mistake. Surely, the Medic never found internal organs unpleasant. He looked at organs and blood like gears and oil. The Spy didn't flinch, trying not to draw any more attention to his mistake. The Engineer wasn't a stupid man, but he often gave people the benefit of the doubt. This was often his downfall as well. The Spy corrected himself. "Vell, I vould imagine. Not easy to clean, you know." "Yeah," the Engineer agreed. He let the Spy go. "Like I said. Let me know if ya see somethin'." The Spy nodded, sharply turning away. Oh, the Medic did have such wonderful posture and stride. "Vill do." Ignoring the farewell from the Engineer, the Spy continued his course. A fresh scent wafted through the air, overpowering the flora in the windows. It was ambered, heady with a hint of vanilla. He smiled, soft thoughts pulling him forward. Perfume. The scent was riding a roll of steam, beckoning him towards the bathroom. It had never smelt that lovely before. Not to say the team's lavatory always stunk like socks and powder, but it was never this pleasant. He smiled, pressing the door open. It smelt like— The Spy's eyes widened. So did theirs. They huddled in fright, wrapping themselves in their towels and robes. Steam tried to shield them from the intruder's eyes, but he saw them all the same. They all had caramel skin, eyes like warm honey, hair dark as fertile earth. A hearty laugh escaped him before he could catch it. There was a harem in the men's bathroom. Go figure. He gave the terrified ladies a bow. "Frauleins." The Spy gave the women some space, going instead to preen in front of the long mirror. Some of the ladies followed him, giggles no louder than soft cooing. Well, he was charming, after all. He liked his old form just a touch more, but the Medic was no slouch. He was the oldest among the group, and yet, his age did nothing but flatter him. It had drawn youthful fat from his face, revealing strong cheekbones. Silver streaked through the hair that threatened to become side burns. It framed his face as well as any precious metal. Even his glasses served only to draw attention to his eyes. This was a good catch. Yet, there was something horribly wrong. As the Spy peered into the glass, women leaning on his broad shoulders, he felt a strange sting in his heart. The face that reflected back was ill, ashen. This Medic had his eyes closed, face slack in slumber. There was something wrong with this mirror world. It was dark, save for the flicker of a distance candle. Something glimmered in the low light. It looked metallic, surrounding the world behind the Medic's head. Prison bars? He leaned closer, trying to figure out what was going on. He felt as if he were going to tumble straight through, perhaps fall meters down. The women on his shoulders twittered, soft murmurs foreign but intoxicating. They pulled away from him, their touch as soft as silk scarves. He followed their movements, watching in fascination as they began to set aside their robes. Beautiful. They migrated towards the showers, beckoning him with slow waves. The Spy smiled. Why not follow them? Seemed like a wonderful idea. A heavy steam was rising from the bathing area. Every nozzle was gushing water. It must have been running for quite some time, the way this steam cloud billowed. The water was warm, just enough to bring pink color to his cheeks. He could feel it on the Medic's lab coat, the clothing as much skin as his own. He smiled, watching the women play. He would have joined them, if he could. He remembered back in the old days, when he used to have his servants scrub his enemies clean and drug them before he took their bodies. It was such a good plan. Why didn't he do that this time? The Spy snapped his head up. Wait, he'd never done that. What was he— "Doc?" The Spy jumped, turning to face the intruder to his harem. The women behind him laughed again, amused with this new fellow. This newcomer brought no joy to the Spy. Whether it was on the battlefield or in his personal life, there was always a Sniper to deal with. The Spy growled; did the man have no shame? "Vat is it?" the Spy snapped at the Sniper. The Sniper pinched his eyebrows. "What are ya doin' in the shower with your bloomin' clothes on?" There wasn't a good answer for that. The Spy growled, huffing at the Sniper. He pretended to push his glasses back, knowing that they were affixed permanently to one spot on his nose. "Vat are you doing vizout your uniform on?" "Doc, don't be coy," the Sniper shook his head. He paced towards one of the shower heads, flicking it on. Wait, wasn't it already on? "Ya've seen everybody in the bloody base in the nuddy." The Spy didn't have a good comeback for that. Sometimes, it was hard to debate the truth. He bit back a string of curses, anger building in his face. It didn't help that the harem was now paying attention to the Sniper, watching him with bemused smiles. The Spy puffed, his hair staying flat against his head. It was bad enough that he had to suffer this vulgar man's insults. Now he had to take his women, too? He wasn't even paying attention to them, and they were fawning over him! He was just going about his routine, back turned away, scrubbing shampoo into dark hair. It was at that moment the Spy realized that he was just a little bit wrong. He placed a hand over his mouth, trying to hide his smirk. Behind that asymmetrical hat and those huge sunglasses, the Sniper had a handsome face. Perhaps not as good as his own, but charming enough, if a little long. He was well built, colored from the sun's constant glare. He had pleasing sinews, good bone structure. Even his scars were attractive, flashes of white and scarlet to keep the eye entertained. Most importantly of all, he was nude. That left open the opportunity for selecting and changing attire. The dagger was at his palm once more. The women's eyes widened, amused with the Spy's treachery. He studied the Sniper's back for a moment, finding the right place to strike. There was a white star in the small of his spine, the scar his doppelganger liked to strike so often. That would do. He stepped into the showers once more, boots splashing against the floor, his muddled reflection mirroring the dark world he'd seen in the looking glass. He didn't anticipate being punched in the face. "Vat in ze hell is—" The Spy began, but was cut off by the Sniper. The Australian had him pinned to the tiled floor, knife lost in the struggle, discretion and decency thrown somewhere out a window. "Where's the Doc, ya bloody spook?" the Sniper demanded. Spook? Oh, of course. It appeared that there was more than wool in the Sniper's brain. After earning that white star in his back, the Sniper had learned to anticipate some of the Spy's attacks. Well, the enemy Spy's, at any rate. He probably though this was just one of those instances again. He didn't suspect that behind the Medic's visage was actually his Spy. The Spy was all about illusions, and he was willing to let the Sniper keep his. "All right, bushman. You caught me." With that, the Spy bucked the Sniper off him. He slammed the Australian into the wall, just enough to send stars spinning in the Sniper's head. That earned him a satisfying, painful cry. He pitched his next victim aside, leaving him to the ladies' attention. They cooed and giggled, surrounding him as the Spy retrieved his blade. Filthy cur. He didn't believe he'd have to resort to this. Ignoring the manicured hands on his body, the Sniper leapt up once again. He took a good swing at the Spy. The blow would have clocked him in the jaw, had the Spy not parried the blow aside. He pushed forward, forcing the Sniper into the wall again. The Sniper raked at him one last time, fingers stopping in mid-air as the Spy drove the dagger into his chest. He grasped at the knife, trying desperately to remove it from his sternum. There was a soft gurgle, then the Sniper slid away, collapsing into the void. The Spy smiled, the rush of water revealing his new form. Well, now. Wasn't this pleasant? He turned to face the harem once more, giving the ladies a wide grin. They all had turned their heads out of the shower, shrieking in fright. The Spy realized his mistake all too quickly. He'd done his deed in a fairly public area, in a room opened to anyone who visited it. Worse off, his fight had been rather noisy. He probably should have checked what was going on around him, but he had been so caught up in the moment that he'd lost himself. Now, the Engineer knew the Spy's treachery. Well, that wasn't going to be a problem for very long. He expected the Engineer to put up a fight. Americans were a stubborn lot, Texans doubly so. The Spy hadn't anticipated on the Engineer turning tail and running. He pursued the short little man, charging down the hall after him. What did he have to care about if he was being indecent? It wasn't his body, after all. The Engineer made it down the hall, slamming the door to his room shut. That wasn't going to stop the Spy for long. He slammed into the door, his knuckles bleeding as he continued breaking in. He could hear the Engineer on the phone, squealing like a scared boar. "Miss Pauling, we've got an incident here! I need ya ta lock—" With a sharp crack, the knob popped out of the door. A large hand squeezed its way through, pulling the door apart. The Engineer yelped, reaching for his shotgun and cradling the phone against his ear. He fired off three rounds. Even as the pellets passed through him, the Spy didn't care. The pain was temporary, the injuries inflicted on a body that was going to be replaced. This cowering beast was toothless. He drew the dagger once more, preparing to silence him. The Texan did little to stop him, continuing his pleading with Miss Pauling. "Don't let us out! Whatever ya do, don't—" What would have normally been a long howl of pain was muted. The Spy pushed through the Engineer's coveralls, finding his heart buried beneath denim and cotton. He kept trying to talk to the woman on the phone, his pleas quiet. The Spy held the dagger just a little longer, enjoying the suffering on the Engineer's face and the last few moments as the Sniper, then drew it back. "Mister Conagher? Are you there?" Miss Pauling asked. The Spy smiled. He raised the phone to his lips, ready to whisper sweet lies. "False alarm, Miss Pauling. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it." She didn't believe a word he said, continuing to demand answers. That didn't matter to the Spy. He placed the phone back on the cradle, smug. Well, he'd lost two beautiful forms, but at least his secret was safe again. Well, that's what he thought until he took a baseball bat upside his head. "You sonnova bitch!" Oh, merde. Again? The Spy turned around, catching the second blow. Of course somebody else had seen him. He felt rage bubbling inside of his him, part genuine and partly from the short-fused Texan. Damned Scouts, with their quick speed and quick eyes. Well, he was going to teach that boy a lesson. The Scout was scared enough as it was. He tried pulling his bat away from the Spy's hand. Even while using the Engineer's human hand, he was surprised with how strong it was. No wonder he could haul his little machines everywhere. He was sturdy, unyielding as stone. The Spy shoved the Scout backwards, pressing him into the closet. No matter. He'd take this young man. He'd take all of the men. Their bodies were all for him, anyway. All for his master. All for his king. No, that wasn't right. The Scout took the Spy's confusion to his advantage. He bit the Spy's human hand, wrestling his bat free once more. The Spy howled, stumbling away from the little cub. Such sharp teeth for a pup. The Scout struck him once more, cracking the yellow helmet on his head. The Spy collapsed at his feet, dizzy from the impact. The Scout didn't let up, continuing to hound him. He stomped on the robotic hand, yanking it free from the human portion of the Engineer's body. It relaxed instantly, dropping the knife from its hand. The Scout plucked it with his free hand, hissing at the defanged Spy at his feet. A cocky smirk crept onto the Scout's face. "How's about a taste 'a your own medicine, snake?" In most situations, killing a man with his own weapon would be fitting. This was not one of those times. As the Scout stabbed the Spy, a horrifying sensation came over him. The world was alive with violent winds, everything a loud, horrible scream. He gained everything the Spy had won, every last bit of experience weighing him down. When the Spy had first done this, it had knocked him out. This was with only one man's conscience absorbed into his own. The Scout had this sickness five times as worse as the Spy. Going unconscious wasn't as horrible as it got. His organs squeezed and expanded, his bones ached, his brain's neurons burst with activity. Everything became wrong instantly. Flowers, women, birds, sand, brick, bars, silk—he experienced it all in one hallucinogenic explosion. All he could do was lie there for hours, watching imaginary stars swirl above his head while maidens fanned him. It was late in the evening before he would have any semblance of reality, locked as a prisoner inside the recreation room and his own body. /***/ "That's not me! That's clearly not me!" The Scout was begging, pleading with his interrogators. He shook his hand towards the television set. "That's the Pyro stabbin' the Medic!" The Demoman slammed his fist into the coffee table. "Dammit, lad! That's you! Don't ya remember?" "I don't, because I didn't do it!" Now he was shrieking in fright. This was getting out of hand fast. The Soldier remained calm, pouring himself another cup of tea. He topped off the Demoman and the Scout's beverages as well, hoping to distract them from their arguments. Both watched the Soldier, but neither took their cup. The Demoman was shaking with rage, the Scout with fear. There was even a shuffle on the door as the Heavy moved from outside, startled by all of the shouting. "Son, I don't care what you did or did not do." The Soldier pressed on, taking over the good cop persona. The Demoman was usually better at this, but he was too disturbed at the moment. "The respawn computer noted that the Spy was the first one to have problems today. Then it was the Pyro. Then the Medic, the Sniper, the—" The Scout placed his head in his hands. "I don't care. Don't care. Wasn't me." The Soldier's voice became gravely, grim. "You need to start caring, son. All of these people were attacked by you, then you became them. Respawn's not bringing them back, either. We've tried to do this without you, but we can't. Don't you see? You need to tell us how you did this so we can fix it. I'm not losing my team to some deranged psychopath. I want them back." "I don't know how." The Scout was cracking, sniffling. The Demoman reached across the table, patting the Scout on the shoulder. Of course he was terrified. They all were. It wasn't just a scared young man he was dealing with. He was dealing with five additional people, all locked up inside of such a small body. He spoke softly, apologizing for his overreaction. "Lad, I'm sorry. We're all scared." There was a slow, sad shake as the Scout continued babbling. "I don't know what ta tell ya." "It's okay. Listen. Try and remember, okay?" The Demoman tried drawing any memory out of the Scout's locked-up brain. "Remember our vacation? Remember how ya got the weapon? What happened? How did ya get it?" Memories flickered in the Scout's brain. There were too many of them. His head felt full, crammed tightly with decades of information. Everything felt foreign to him. There were bursts of thoughts here and there, memories dear and private. The laughs of tormentors, first kisses, sorrows, jubilations. So few of them actually belonged to him. He dug further back, halting as he came across a pair of teeth in the darkness. That little old man. He was smiling, mocking him. "Zere was an old man. He said…" The Scout trailed off, the words in his mouth alien. "He said not to use it. I zink…I zink he knew…" Both the Soldier and the Demoman sat up. They'd gotten through to the Spy. The Soldier kept encouraging the young man. "What did he say? Can you stop it?" "I don't…know." The Scout shook his head. "It could only be used by…a true and honorable man." The Soldier frowned. "That's pretty vague, kid. Culturally speaking, there's a lot of ways to be true and honorable." He leaned back, ticking ways on his hands. "Not lying. Not killing a guy to marry his hot wife. Being nice. Being royalty. Seppuku, occasionally." The Scout lifted his head. "What?" "You know. Hara-kiri." The Soldier continued foaming at the mouth, not realizing what he'd just done. "It's what the samurai used to do when they were dishonored. Just take a sword to their belly and—hey!" It was too late. The Scout's fingers were fast, and the Spy's brain worked faster. The young man had his hands on the dagger once more. This time, it wasn't pointed at his interrogators. He spun the knife around by its hilt. He was an honorable man, and he was going to prove it. Without any hesitation, he plunged it into his heart. The Scout's body disappeared in a cloud of dust. The dagger dropped lifelessly to the couch, resting in the soft residue of what had been the Scout. Neither the Soldier nor the Demoman knew what to do. Okay, bringing the knife to the interrogation had been a supremely stupid idea, but still. The rascal had been all about hiding his deeds and continuing his lies. Suicide was not something they'd expected. "Now what?" the Demoman asked.
I am on the edge of my goddamn seat here. I am loving the Hara-Kiri, such a great twist. (But seriously, take your time with the next part. You don't need to rush this at all.)
The characterizations of each of the men in this - they're WONDERFUL. Medic in particular. He was the oldest among the group, and yet, his age did nothing but flatter him. It had drawn youthful fat from his face, revealing strong cheekbones. Silver streaked through the hair that threatened to become side burns. It framed his face as well as any precious metal. Even his glasses served only to draw attention to his eyes. And then the glimpse in the mirror - The face that reflected back was ill, ashen. This Medic had his eyes closed, face slack in slumber. There was something wrong with this mirror world. It was dark, save for the flicker of a distance candle. Something glimmered in the low light. It looked metallic, surrounding the world behind the Medic's head. Prison bars? Love it. And while dark endings certainly have their places, I will wait patiently for the another day you've promised.
I could have sworn I had some concrit, but then you described naked Sniper in the shower and my brains took a vacation. As for the ending, I personally infinitely prefer happy endings over sad/dark ones, so I'll certainly keep reading and hope that the team can be saved.
I really don't understand the bits with the women?
>>16 Took me awhile but I think he's having memories or hallucinations from the original owner's life. I assume the original owner way back when was some rich guy or ruler.
>>17 Bingo. When you all are finished, you really aught to read up on what a Tower of Silence is. It's basically what I based the first part of this chapter on. There's also some Assassin's Creed and Legend of Zelda in there, if you squint. Because why not? /***/ When he came to, the first thing the Scout saw was a human skull. Now, the Scout was no stranger to seeing internal parts of humans strewn about. Bones, blood, and organs frequently rained from the skies where he fought. Hell, sometimes he was part of that precipitation. That being said, waking up next to a skull was still horrifying. He instantly jumped up, only to stumble backwards over another skeleton. He caught his foot in the ribcage of a third body. They were everywhere. Hundreds of them spiraled towards the center of the floor where he had been laying, all arranged by age and sex. Most of them were dry and bleached white, although some of the bodies towards the outskirts of the cobblestone floor still had little bits of flesh on them. Nothing had rotted naturally, either. There were knicks in the bones, like something had been pecking away at them. After he got over the shellshock of finding a mass grave, the Scout looked up. Wind was thrashing around him. Dust flew into his eyes. It was only with an arm covered over his face that he could see. It wasn't a catacomb where he was laying. No, he was outside. He could barely see a black sky that faded into rust. There were no stars. Hell, he couldn't even see the ground. He walked towards the edge of the floor, finding sandstone built up to his waist. He looked down, then dropped his jaw. "Holy mudda 'a God," the Scout said. His knees wobbled as he realized how far up he was. So, this was a tower. He could see a courtyard below him, cobblestone spread out in a circular build around the tower. Plants grew wildly, flowers and weeds overtaking walkways. There were impossible trees, purple with the tiniest of pink blossoms. Carts and caravans lay abandoned, yellow hay spilling over the sides. The remains of people lay below in the courtyard, some still covered with their robes, veils, and keffiyehs. Perfect blue water ran in arcs around the tower, running through buildings and off the edge of the world. Only dirty clouds floated beyond this palace. The Scout came back from the edge of the tower, trying to think of a plan. He was not as panicked as he could have been, but he wasn't sure what he was dealing with, either. The atmosphere felt strange, like he was being drugged with sleeping gas. What was this? It wasn't like he hadn't passed through alternate dimensions before—hell, he'd just been to the underworld last Halloween—but he didn't like staying in them for very long. There had to be a way back. Although, he wasn't sure what would happen when he would return. The Soldier and the Demoman would probably interrogate him again. That wasn't an event he was looking forward to. First things first. He had to escape. Part one of his escape required getting down from this tower. He paced around, jumping over skeletons as he went. There had to be some kind of door. He went back and forth, looking for a wooden door or a metal hatch. Something, anything. After five minutes of searching, the Scout huffed. How did he get up here, anyway? Did he fall out of the sky? Geez, that sounded ridiculous. Then again, he was pretty sure that he'd—or the Spy, whoever—had committed suicide. For most people, that was usually the final note. For him, that meant a respawn in fifteen to thirty seconds. To have ended up here must have required some strange magical powers. Not that he didn't know a thing or two about that, either. Having Merasmus crash a party was always a pain in the ass, but at least he got some exposure to the dark arts. Well, no door. The Scout wandered back to the edge of the tower, shooing away a couple of vultures. He peeked over the sandstone barrier, taking notes of the structures below him. There were windowsills, wooden beams jutting out here and there, the occasional awning. There was also a cart full of hay below him. That would have to do. Besides, if he ended up falling to his death, maybe he'd get lucky and respawn back at home. Not that he was going to push it, but at least he might have had a back-up. The Scout ran off the edge of the tower. "Geronimo!" His tumbling was half graceful jester, half drunken monkey. The Scout grabbed one windowsill, landing on a wooden beam with a heavy thud. He slipped down, swinging from beam to beam. An awning tore beneath him as he landed on it, sending him sprawling for a few meters. With two final swings, he landed in the cart below. He popped out of the hay, spitting strands. Well, that wasn't his greatest physical feat, but it was exhilarating. "Okay," the Scout sighed. "Now what?" The Bostonian pulled himself out of the cart, stumbling from his adrenaline. He wandered around the bodies, trying to figure out how they'd died. It wasn't as if they'd fallen to their deaths. They were mostly whole, bones unbroken. He studied one guard, noticing the strange color on its face. He was a sickly gray, face fixed in a permanent grimace. The Scout would have felt worse, but this guy was beyond his help. He did help himself to the guard's sword, however. Might as well have some protection while wandering some creepy alternate dimension. The Scout spent a great deal of time in the courtyard, wandering without any direction. Creepy as all hell? Sure. It was also very dull. Dead people weren't going to harm him. A few vultures were circling above the tower where he had awakened, but that was it, as far as animal life went. He looked around, trying to figure out what to investigate. Everything was blocked off by brick walls. The odd tower jutted out along the horizon, but he didn't want to poke his nose around them on the off chance that they were just like the one he'd been in. The Scout huffed. "Alright. Someone wanna throw me a bone, here?" Crash! Glass rained down as something tumbled out of a window above his head. The Scout ducked under an awning, freaked out by the sudden noise. His panic escalated as soon as he realized what had been thrown at him. It was a living human. Well, outside of the robotic arm, mostly human. The Scout hopped next to his pal, glad to have a friendly face in this strange realm. The Scout helped the Engineer up. "Glad ya dropped in, Overalls." He didn't receive a snappy comeback. "Get back!" The Engineer hauled the Scout back by the scruff of his t-shirt. The rough action spared the Scout from a huge axe hurdling from above. It shattered the cobblestone below, flinging debris everywhere. The Scout glanced up at the broken window, his jaw dropped. Standing there was some kind of knight, clothed from head to toe in bulky armor save for a band of cloth. It made a low, guttural roar, then jumped out of the window as well. "Wha-wha-what in the hell is that thing?" the Scout stammered. The Engineer backed up, testing his robotic arm. It was still functional. "Take my advice, youngin'. Do not touch the statues in there." The knight pulled his axe from the ground, facing the duo once more. The Scout raised his stolen sword, growling under his breath. "Got any wise ideas, genius?" The Engineer nodded. "Can ya distract him for a minute?" Being an annoyance was pretty much the Scout's job. "Can do!" The Scout began running circles around the huge knight. It took a swing at him, axe buzzing just above his head as he ducked. He could feel a breeze from the weapon as it missed him. Man, that guy had some power. The Scout jumped to the left, just nimble enough to not be bisected. He kept swinging the guard around, making sure that the Engineer stayed out of the line of fire. There was no way a guy like him could dodge this. "See anything?" the Scout asked. The Engineer didn't answer the Scout's question, but the Bostonian knew that the Texan had found what he was looking for. What the Engineer lacked in speed he made up for with strength. He jumped the knight, locking his legs around its waist. The knight tried to buck him off of its back, but his struggles were fruitless. The Engineer dug his robotic hand into its armor, peeling away a thick layer of metal. He smirked, then dragged the ripcord out of the base of his hand. It spun to life as the Engineer slammed it into what he'd found below the knight's armor. The Scout cocked his head to the side at the sound the blow made. It wasn't like a shredder pulping flesh. It was more like somebody chopping up glass. With a final uneasy stride, the knight collapsed to the ground, the blade of his axe buried in the cobblestone path. The Engineer dropped off its back, dusting his hands off as he grinned. The Scout took a look at his work. There was some kind of pink gemstone where there should have been a spine in the knight's back. The Scout shook his head, dumbfounded. "What in da hell d'ya just do?" the Scout inquired. The Engineer crossed his arms. "Think I just cut off its power supply." The Scout shot him a dirty look. "Dat's not a robot. No way." "I don't think so, either." The Engineer scratched his chin. "Maybe a golem? Not sure." The Scout scrunched up his eyebrows. "A what?" "It's a Jewish—ya know what, never mind." The Engineer strode towards the walls surrounding the courtyard. "Glad ta see yer okay, grasshopper." The Scout followed the Engineer. "'Course I'm fine. Kind of surprised ta see you here." The Engineer ducked into a passageway, observing the torches on the wall. He plucked one off, motioning for the Scout to come with him. "Probably got here the same way ya did. Last thing I remember was gettin' into a fight with you. Can't say I was in my right mind." "Me neither. It was like you were in my head or somethin'." The Scout puffed air out of his lips, shaking his head. "Man, when I saw da Sniper stab ya, and then he turned into ya—dat was weird. Scared da hell outta me." The Engineer agreed. "The Medic got him. I'm not sure what happened before that, but I reckon it has somethin' ta do with the Pyro and the Spy. Somethin' about them was makin' the respawn generator act up. Kept sayin' that they had no health, but still thought they were alive." The Scout nodded, stopping only a moment to ogle a busty statue of some half-woman, half-snake. "Mmm hmm." He turned his attention back to the Texan, quick to catch up. "So, where are we, anyway?" "Not a clue, Scout." The Engineer shrugged, tilting his head up. "Nearest I can tell, it's some kinda anachronistic Arabic castle. Doesn't seem like there's anythin' outside of the castle, either. Ya know, it kinda looks like it does out of an airplane out there. Just nothin' but clouds." The Scout gave a strange snort, one he'd most likely picked up from the Spy. "A flyin' castle? Please." The duo ducked beneath a doorway, batting old drapes out of their face. Carpets lined the stone floor, brilliant red and gold patterns worn down by time. Some of the windows were broken. Narcissus and rose blooms fought their way inside, clinging to anything they could grow into. They did a great deal of work in disguising the smell of dead bodies, but their scents weren't alone. There was a third scent, something that reminded both men of kitchens. Something like cookies, but not quite right. "Is dat perfume?" the Scout asked. The Engineer grimaced. "Maybe. Kinda smells familiar, doesn't it?" The Scout made another face. "Well, it ain't what Miss Pauling wears. And I don't know about you, but I don't go around sniffin' what da Administrator's got on." "Neither do I." The Engineer placed his human hand on his chin. He took another whiff, then finally placed the scent. "Vanilla." "Well, dat's great. Somebody's wearing vanilla-scented perfume." The Scout huffed, growing bored with the topic. "So, whaddya thinkin'? Some dame's just walking around dis dead city, just stinkin' up da place as she goes?" The Engineer shook his head. "Just something strange about it. We'll have to—" Dripping from the ceiling interrupted the Engineer's line of thought. Both of the men stopped, wondering why water was coming through the cracks in the floorboards above their heads. They stepped into a nearby stairwell, ascending into the floor above. Water was running down the hallway, threatening to turn a trickle down the stairs into a proper waterfall. The two men followed it, tracing it around a corner. The trail was coming from a large room to the left. It had a white frame, complete with two doors with golden knobs. They both reached for a knob, preparing for whatever they were about to find. "On the count 'a three," the Engineer said. "One, two—" They both pulled their door back just as the Engineer called "Three!" A foot of standing water rolled past them, rushing every which way it could go. There was a bathhouse behind the door, ivory tile elevating several overflowing pools. The Scout's jaw hit the floor. Women sat in each pool, giggling and splashing. Some were braiding their cohort's hair, others throwing soap and squirting water at each other. All of them had pink scarves and towels at the edge of the pool, all facing away from the intruders to their bathroom. None of them paid any mind, simply going about their cleaning rituals. "Oh my God," the Scout's jaw dropped. He stepped one foot into the bathroom when the Engineer placed his hand against his shoulder. The Bostonian shot the Texan a dirty look. "Yeah, yeah, I know dis is probably a trap. Can't ya just let me walk into dis one?" The Engineer did not humor the Scout. He tilted his head towards the ground. "Look." That was when he noticed that the water was tinted slightly pink. The Engineer let go of his head, giving the Scout the time he needed to figure out what was going on. The water turned from a pale rose to dark scarlet, following trails winding to the back of the bathroom. The color was coming from the tub furthest back, where two women stood studying someone with dark ruffled hair lying motionless in the tub. They turned to face both men, fresh red substance dribbling from their lips. The Scout groaned. "Ah, crap." The two women shrieked, sharp teeth and rotting jaws now exposed. The other women followed in kind, all staring back at the intruders with hungry, yellowed eyes. Normal men would not storm Bathsheba's House of the Damned, but neither the Engineer nor the Scout could be qualified as normal. The Engineer broke first, dashing between the first two pools. The Scout caught up to him, only to be pulled back by half a dozen starving ghouls. He ran through two of them with his sword, the blade catching light from soft candles. The other four hissed at the shimmer, then pounced on him. The Engineer wasn't having any better luck. He made his way to the back, knocking the teeth out of one of the ghouls with his mechanical hand. Another tried chewing through his coveralls, but withdrew with disgust, spitting out bits of denim. He had just made it to the back when the two women decided to add him to their soup. One threw him into the pool, the other leaping on him. They tried tearing at his neck, determined to spill his blood as well. It was all he could do to keep his head above water. "I would like to say—ack!—dat I acknowledge dat—oh, jeez, ladies!—dis was a very bad idea!" The Scout drew his blade through the necks of two more ghouls. They collapsed to the floor, gnawing in their death throws, excited by the taste of their own blood. He decapitated one more, yelping at the mess. How did the Demoman put up with this every day, wielding that huge broadsword of his? He slashed once more, splitting a ghoul down the middle. The Engineer didn't respond. He'd barely got his lips to the surface of the pool before he was pushed under once again. He reached upwards, yanking one of his attackers below. With a quick squeeze, he crushed her neck. Tossing his dead assailant out, he grabbed the other one and careened her into the wall. The blow was strong enough to shatter the base of her skull. The Engineer's stomach rolled, the gore of the situation actually getting to him for once. Fighting was a part of his job, yes, but fighting women was not something he liked doing. Even if they were freakish demons that were trying to eat him. He focused on the situation at hand, his attention drawn to the human body left limp in the pool. Yanking the ghoul's sopping-wet towels off the floor, he grabbed the dark-haired man from the pool and wrapped him up. Good lord, the Sniper was so pale. As much as he hated seeing women like this, he hated seeing his teammates victimized even more. "Clear the way!" The Engineer hauled the Sniper over his shoulder. The Scout gave him a salute, slashing the latest wave of ghouls away. The Texan barreled past him, yanking the Scout with him as he broke through the bathhouse doors again. The Scout slammed the doors shut behind them. Arms and fingers wriggled at him, still trying to drag him back into their pools. He shoved the doors once last time, pinching the extremities free from their bodies. He took his ill-gotten blade and ran it between the two knobs, locking the demonic women away. The Scout wanted to heave, the breath in his lungs irregular. "Dat…sucked." "Where d'ya get that sword, anyway?" The Engineer asked. "Stole it off a dead guy," the Scout shrugged. He peeked over the Engineer's shoulder, pulling back on the Sniper's right eyelid. "Is he even alive?" "I'm not even sure we're alive, son." The Engineer flipped the Sniper off of his shoulder, settling for a more comfortable position. "Well, let's go see if we can't find ya another sword. Maybe get this guy some pants." "Ah, geez." The Scout scrunched up his face, now disgusted in a new way. "If I turn into a zombie 'cause a dat kangaroo bastard, I'm eatin' him first. And den you." The Engineer sighed, now wondering what layer of hell they were all on.
Words cannot express how fucking intrigued I am. Do go on.
I was super excited to see that there was an update. But this is just AWESOME!
I'm very intrigued, please go on :) And ohhhh, naked wet Sniper again! You spoil us :D All right, so I wikied "Tower of Silence" and got: Zoroastrian tradition considers a dead body —in addition to cut hair and nail-parings— to be nasu, unclean, i.e. potential pollutants. Specifically, the corpse demon (Avestan: nasu.daeva) was believed to rush into the body and contaminate everything it came into contact with,[1] hence the Vendidad (an ecclesiastical code "given against the demons") has rules for disposing of the dead as "safely" as possible. To preclude the pollution of earth or fire (see Zam and Atar respectively), the bodies of the dead are placed atop a tower —a tower of silence— and so exposed to the sun and to birds of prey. Thus, "putrefaction with all its concomitant evils... is most effectually prevented." Part of me is thinking "oh, wow, that's so fascinating, how cool!" while another part of me is utterly baffled that building a freaking giant tower and leaving countless corpses on top to rot in open air is considered the "safe" way to dispose of bodies. Well, it certainly makes for a very interesting and original environment to set a story in.
That was really great. Love how you incorporated that minor Engie kill-taunt in, and is the sword a Three-Rune Blade reference or just a weapon for him? Assassin's Creed: Swinging from the bars. Scout's the most mobile so it's pretty cool to think of him as an assassin. Legend of Zelda: I think it's the knight, right? Haven't played enough to be able to really pinpoint it though.
> 22 Yeah, you got the Zelda reference right. If I recall correctly, they're called Armos - or at least that's what they were called in the original game. I don't remember if Nintendo changed it in later games. Intriguing so far, D.F. Am I to assume that they'll find Medic, then Pyro, then Spy last of all? Also, I'm very curious as to how the heck they'll get out of this mess they're in.
>>22 >>23 You two know how I play! /***/ It was a rare, haunting moment when the Soldier felt helpless. These times happened few and far between each other. He was a brave man, a paladin to the core. Perhaps he was too stubborn and dense to realize all the instances where he was unable to win. This was not one of those times. He knew that with the Scout's suicide, he'd lost his chance to rescue his teammates. The remnants of his team were fairing no better. After being cleared to leave the interrogation room by Miss Pauling, the three of them took the cursed knife to a vault and locked it away. Each man was responsible for one part of the lock, just to make sure that none of them would go mad and be able to get it free. Since then, each man had taken up his own activity. The Demoman returned to his typical schedule, sitting out on the barrack's porch and drinking scrumpy. The Heavy had gone off to feed the Medic's birds. In a way, they were his children too. Every man had a bird or two from the Medic's flock that would pay some kind attention to them, but the entire flock enjoyed the Heavy's company. The Soldier tried calling Merasmus, but the magician had his phone off the hook. Typical lazy druid. Even after trying to deal with their situation on their own, the men eventually found their way to the front porch. Hell, even Miss Pauling showed up. The Demoman passed each person a bottle, all four nursing their drink at their own rate. The Soldier was well paced, taking his time. The Heavy was quite the opposite, downing two rapidly and only slowing on his third bottle. Miss Pauling was working on a cup of coffee, fighting to stay awake. It probably wasn't a good idea for her to be drinking on the job. As for the Demoman—well, he lost count. "I'm gonna miss those bastards," the Demoman murmured. The Soldier, ever the optimist, tried picking the group up. "Don't you worry, Tavish. We'll figure it out. I'll get that hippie magician on the phone, and he'll tell us what to do. Just as soon as he gets his lazy ass up, of course." "Archimedes has new babies. Medic is dedushka again," the Heavy sighed. "Is unfortunate that he is not here to name them." Miss Pauling smiled, leaning on the Heavy's shoulder. "You'll have to pick good names for them." The Heavy shook his head. "Nyet. Is not my place." "He'll be back. He's a stubborn German bastard. I've met only two kinds of people more stubborn than Germans, and that's Texans and Iowans." The Soldier threw back another swallow, then wiped his face on his sleeve. "Do you have an Einstein yet?" The Heavy nodded. "When he gets back, we will talk. Pavlov would be good, da? Maybe Keldysh." The Soldier tipped his bottleneck at the Heavy. "I outta punch you in your Commie face." "I was gonna go to the movies with the Pyro this weekend. We were gonna throw popcorn at the Scout while he tried makin' out with whatever wee lass he was goin' with!" The Demoman began sobbing. "What's the use of goin' if I don't have them? I can't watch Bloodfest Carnival! Zombies and carnies scare the crap outta me!" Miss Pauling agreed. She kept her eyes low, crossing her ankles. "I just bought a new car. I was going to have Mister Conagher take a look at it. He's the best mechanic I've ever had. I can ask him questions, and he'll answer it. He's never been snide with me." "We could have gone in your car!" the Demoman wailed. "It's a drive-in theater!" "Probably couldn't have gone this weekend. Mister Mundy was going to take me target shooting." Miss Pauling sighed. "I think the Administrator will have a hard time replacing him. She was so fond of his work. He was always such the professional, such a gentleman." "And I'll miss Scarecrow the most of all!" the Soldier babbled. Everyone turned their attention to the Midwesterner, not sure what he was talking about. The Heavy in particular gave him a funny look. "Scarecrow? Vat?" "Oh, wait. That's the Wizard of Oz. Never mind," the Soldier said. Miss Pauling jumped off the porch railing, gathering up her men. "I think you boys have had enough. You probably should get some rest. We'll see what we can do in the morning." The Demoman agreed. He slumped back into the base, slurring his words together. "Damn bloody back-stabbin' Spy. I'd expect this outta that other bastard, but not him." "He is gone, too," the Heavy corrected the Demoman. "Does no good to accuse him. We can hate him after we get him back." The Soldier smiled, his arms on both his teammates' backs. "That's the spirit. We've…we've gotta stick together. If it's just us, then we've gotta fight to the bitter end." The three men clambered back upstairs. Miss Pauling watched the lights flicker off above her head. She sat for a few minutes, trying to enjoy the night air. It was difficult to do. The wind was cold, the sky muddled with thin, sickly clouds. She thought about driving to her little apartment back in Teufort. The road seemed barren, empty. No, she couldn't do it tonight. There was a guest suite on the second floor that she used from time to time. It wasn't much, but all she wanted right then was a place to lie down for a while. She ascended the stairwell, an unopened scrumpy bottle in her hands. It would be emptied long before the morning would come. /***/ The Sniper was a man of few words. Sure, when he was agitated, he could spew harsh soliloquies in a strong, fortissimo volume. When he was content, he was no louder than a gentle rain. This was one of those times where he should have been terrified, clawing and yelping. The last thing he could recall was being devoured by maidens with rotting jaws, and before that being stabbed in the back by that bloody Spook. As he was drawn out of the veil of death, he found himself in a new place. It was clouded, overgrown, littered with corpses. He should have been horrified. Instead, he found himself at ease, a friendly smile beckoning him out of his nightmares. "Hey, Dell," the Sniper whispered. The Engineer kept beaming. "Hey, Mundy." The Sniper pushed himself onto his elbows. The strange whirling in the dark sky coupled with his blood loss, throwing his brain into a chaotic fog. "Where are we?" "Now, that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question." The Engineer helped the Sniper to sit upright. "The Scout'll be back in a second. He went to go find some weapons and clothing." Clothing? The Sniper glanced down, then felt his face flash hot. Oh, dear. "I'm gonna kill that Spy." "Don't worry. I don't think the Scout saw anythin'," the Engineer said. It wasn't that he was concerned about who saw him naked. It was more that somebody had decided to murder him—and succeeded, frankly—when he was just trying to go about his private business. He sighed, folding his legs. "That tart's got no respect. It's bad enough that he's always goin' after moi backside. Could he at least have the decency to kill me while I'm in moi trousers?" "Totally agree. Ya've got enough disgusting habits. Ya don't need ta add streaking to the list." The Sniper and the Engineer glanced over at the Scout. The Bostonian had found half a dozen swords of various shapes and sizes. He also had a leather quiver and a bow thrown across his back, as well as a few daggers tucked into the sides of his elastic pant waist. It was surprising he could carry that much. He was a skinny sprout, after all. The Scout pitched most of the items onto the ground, then grabbed the cloth pants he had tucked under his armpit. He tossed it at the Sniper's face. "Found this on a cart. I figured even you wouldn't wanna wear a dead guy's clothes." "Sometimes, ya don't have a choice." The Sniper slipped into the pair of pants. "Crikey. I think these were made for the Heavy." The Scout threw his head back. "Oh, for cryin' out loud!" The Sniper stuffed back any further complaints. "Thank ya for yer help, Scout." He tore a horizontal strip from the towel he'd woken up in. It wasn't the best belt, but it helped. "Yeah, well, you're welcome," the Scout grumbled. "Didn't wanna see your naked ass any more den I had to." The Engineer coughed once, trying to get everyone off the subject. "Did ya happen to see anything else while you were out scoutin'?" The Scout shook his head. "Just more dead guys everywhere. Found more of these cool swords." He flipped the sword around, amused with its silvery glimmer and the lupine head on the bottom of the hilt. "Man, wish I had one 'a these ta use back home." "We'll have ta see about makin' ya one, then." The Engineer gave the Scout a pat on the back. At least he was being optimistic. "Probably will have ta ask the Soldier or the Demoman fer help. They seem ta be up-to-snuff with swords." After securing the bow and quiver from the Scout, the Sniper picked another sword off the ground. "Now, if ya ask me, this one's the winner. A real beaut." He rested one hand on the dull side of the scimitar, admiring the gentle curve of the blade. "Sure thing, princess. You see this? It's got a wolf on it. Like, pack leaders and alpha dogs and stuff. Dat's gotta be at least a third manlier den yours," the Scout argued. The Engineer laughed, then stood up. "Suppose we ought to keep movin', right boys?" The Sniper wobbled upright, his knees softer than gelatin. "Hope ya know where we're goin'." "Not a clue," the Scout grumbled. "Can't sit around here, though. Gettin' bored." After rummaging through the Scout's acquisitions, the trio ambled out of the courtyard. It was clear that nothing harmful was going to go after them in that location. Sure, the corpses and overturned caravans were disturbing, but they weren't snarling monsters, either. They took their time exploring the first level of the castle grounds. There wasn't much to discover. Most of the rooms were locked, but upon having the Engineer bash into them, they turned out to be little more than waiting rooms or lounges. The occasional kitchen and armory was tossed here or there. Every couple of rooms looked like they could have been quarters for servants. The second floor was like this as well, more or less. Going past the bathing room where they found the Sniper startled its remaining residents, but none could figure out how to escape or pop open the door. That didn't stop the Australian from jolting. The trio continued their ascent around the fortress. Third, fourth, fifth. All of it was dull, filler. The upper levels were filled with more studies, bedrooms, and libraries, but it brought little interest to the group. The Scout paused in front of one of the windows, admiring as man-made water channels ran off the edge of the world and into the red abyss below. He wondered how any water remained here at all. Were they on a mountain? A floating island? They had to be incredibly high up, at any rate. There was no landscape outside of the castle. Just a drop into the air. "Suppose we've been goin' the wrong direction?" the Sniper asked. The Engineer agreed. "Reckon we should probably head down." The Scout nodded his head. "Yeah. Whaddya suppose is in the basement 'a dis place, anyway? Dungeons?" "Most likely," said the Engineer. "Torture chambers?" the Scout added. The Sniper concurred. "Yeah." "Oh." The Scout threw up his arms. "Den why do we wanna go down dere?" With a sigh, the Sniper pulled the Scout down a nearby stairwell. "We've gotta find the Medic. If I ended up here after getting shivved, it's likely that he's here." "It's possible that the Pyro's here, too. I'd put good money on the Spy showin' up as well," the Engineer speculated. The Scout pulled a face. "Man, I'm not sure if I wanna save him. What kinda bastard goes around stabbing his own teammates?" The Sniper gave him a confused expression. "Wait a tic. Our Spy? I thought it was that blasted other Spy!" "I'm thinkin' the kid's right," the Engineer said. "Least, that might explain why respawn wasn't able to detect him. He was pretty familiar with our base, too." "Guess yer right," the Sniper sighed. He placed his hands behind his head. "Plus, he was wieldin' that knoife he got on our vacation." Now that caught the Scout and the Engineer's attention. The Scout spoke for both of them. "What knife?" The Sniper waved his hand, trying to shoo away the question. "Just some knoife he picked up in the black markets. Somethin' about it havin' some kind of power ta steal souls or some nonsense. Most dealers speak a lot 'a rubbish like that, 'specially when a rich looking bloke like the Spy shows up." The Engineer scratched his chin. "Now, I ain't a man to speculate on the afterlife and the nature of a man's soul, but if what you say is true, I reckon the Spy might not have been lied to. This place seems mighty supernatural. I wouldn't call it hell, but it ain't a slice 'a heaven, either." "Weapons with magical powers. Yeah, right," the Scout scoffed. "Next, you'll tell me dat da Demoman's sword tells him ta decapitate people. Or dat Sasha really is a—" The Bostonian fell silent as he took his first step into the basement of the castle. Neither the Engineer nor the Sniper could find words to fill the void, either. They had descended into a dark, filthy prison. Weathered bricks were dark brown, splattered with old fluids. The ground was dusty, unswept. Chains hung from the ceiling, skeletons dangling from some of them. Whole human remains were strewn about with no thought or purpose. Nobody screamed or panicked, but they fell in line together, huddled shoulder to shoulder. The Sniper was the first to press forward from the group. He walked past several cages, iron bars coated with rust and tacky slime. Both the Engineer and the Scout followed him, although they remained several paces behind. The air was polluted, thick with a musty scent. It settled into their lungs, sending them into occasional coughing fits. Finding a rotting wooden door, the Sniper stepped into another room. A small gasp escaped him. His teammates were quick to follow him, both struck with the same terror and awe. Everything was dark, as if all light and color had been punctured and drained from their surroundings. Grey and browns surrendered to the dark pit in the center of the room. Dangling above their heads was what appeared to be an array of bird cages. They were made of the same aged metal as the prisons before, unable to shine in even the faintest of light due to their corrosion. As dank and black as everything else was, a splotch of white interrupted the room's gloom. Even weathered and scuffed, the jacket of the Medic was by far the brightest object in the room. The Scout yelled upwards. "Doc! Doc, are ya okay?" There was a stirring from the cage that held the Medic captive. He raised his head, then turned to face his teammates. Instead of joy or elation, a mournful, grey grimace cast its shade over the Medic's appearance. He hissed, "Quiet! Get out of here!" "Doc, we're not leavin' ya." The Engineer glanced around, searching for some kind of switch to lower the Medic's cage. "Give us a second. We'll have ya down in no time." "Schweinhunds! Get back!" the Medic croaked. He sounded hurt, like if someone had been throttling him by the throat. The Sniper raised his eyebrows, jaw slackened. "Doc's right." The Engineer rebuked his friend. "Mundy, we ain't leavin' him. Now, help me get him down." "I ain't sayin' we need to abandon the Doc." The Sniper drew the bow that he Scout had given him. He saw things stirring in the pit, writhing with a nauseating undulation. The Scout grumbled, edging towards the abyss beneath the bird cages. "Geez Louise, what is—" He didn't get a chance to finish his question. He got his answer, all the same. A blur shot up to meet him, grabbing the young man by his scrawny neck. With an undignified choke, the Scout was dragged into the pit. The Engineer yelped, terrified by the aberration he saw below. It was winding into itself, knotted and tangled like a mass of fat worms. However, when this beast reared its head from the sea of its own flesh, it was clear that this monster was something more sinister, something that struck a primordial fear in the two remaining men and the prisoner above. If any creatures could speak romantically about this beast, it would be Cleopatra's assassins.
Oh man. I was about to go to sleep when I saw this updated. Awesome!
I am excite. God I love this story.
One day, someone's gonna whack me with a rolled-up news paper for all the biological/historical inaccuracies that I write. /***/ There were two vicious beasts in that dank prison. The first was the gargantuan serpent in the pit beneath the circle of cages hanging suspended above its flat, diamond-shaped head. This was a nasty brute, one so large and ferocious that one bite could turn a man into a mouse. It had already struck the Scout, the boy's limp body squashed into its massive folds. Had the snake been alone, it would have already made a meal out of him. It was more concerned with the other creatures in the room, all scurrying about and squeaking. It was clear within moments what the other beast was. It was bipedal, lanky, sharp-toothed. Splinters flew from its hands, easily blinding the huge serpent with two shots. Not that the snake needed its eyes to sense this savage prey. It had a peculiar funk, half perfumed and half salty. The heat from his body radiated like a small candle in the cold prison, giving no cover to the human. The rat was well armed, but arms alone weren't going to spare it from lightning-quick strikes. All it needed was one good hit, and it would be as languid as its upcoming dinner. "Truckie!" the Sniper commanded. "Get the Doc!" "Already on it!" The Engineer wasn't one to pick fights, particularly not with a snake that thought of him as a fat little mouse. He pressed along the walls, looking for a switch to lower the Doc's cage. Several wooden levers were stretched along the perimeter, wrapped at the handle with cloth. He flung some up and down, trying to figure out how they were laid out. With a little squinting and testing, he finally found the lever that controlled the Medic's cage. The Engineer called up to the Medic, jolting as he watched the Sniper barely avoid a direct bite. "Doc, I'm gonna need ya ta start swingin'!" The Medic pulled a face. He was not down with this plan, but he wasn't going to argue. It was the first time since he'd gotten here that he'd seen other humans, and he wasn't about to let them get slaughtered trying to save him. He leaned back in his cage, starting with a slow rock. As he sped up, the Engineer began lowering his prison. With any luck, he'd swing clear of the pit and onto the cobblestone floor. Then it would be as simple as snapping the bars open with his robotic hand, and then the Doc could look after the kid. Jumpin' Jehosaphat, the kid! "Stretch! Quit screwin' around with the snake and get the Scout!" the Engineer ordered. "Oh, I'll get roight on it!" the Sniper called back, an edge of sarcasm showing his stress. He dove away from the snake's head, the serpent crashing blindly into the wall behind him. It reared back once more, snapping at the air. It was much too close for comfort, particularly for a long-range marksman like himself. He pitched the bow aside, switching to the sword that the Scout had secured for him. He couldn't let that little bloke down. The Sniper held his ground, preparing for the next bite. As the asp prepared to snap him up, he side-stepped the beast once more. This time, he drove the sword into its mouth. He hit one of its fangs, striking sensitive tissue as he severed the tooth. The impact was so strong that it caused the Sniper to stumble, tripping over his feet as he fought to hold onto his scimitar. The blade was almost cracked in two, a huge triangular gouge missing. It made a loose loop around him, a forked tongue testing the air and tasting blood. The Sniper caught his breath, then prepared for another charge. This time, he pulled himself over the snake's body. The Sniper made one sharp slash, striking through flesh and hitting bone. The serpent reared back, gnawing the air. It drove forward, shattered teeth heading straight for the Sniper's chest. Its aim was getting sloppy, worse as the snake grew weary. The shot came a few centimeters short as the Sniper rolled aside once more. He misjudged his escape as well. With an awkward landing, he fell into the pit and onto the writing mass that was the rest of the snake's impossibly long body. Neither beast nor man was suited for a drawn out fight, and it was showing. The serpent lost its focus on the Sniper when a strange metallic object crashed into its spine. The Engineer just about had the Medic's cage far enough down. Unfortunately, he'd miscalculated the swing the Medic had built up. As the cage fell back, the snake lashed out. It caught the cage's bars, blood and venom oozing out of its mouth as it struggled to chew through. The Medic was startled, making an awkward gasp, but was protected by the metal imprisoning him. With a few shakes, the serpent yanked the Medic's cage off of its supporting chain, breaking the pulley system along with it. The Engineer balked, but he didn't let his courage slip for long. Blue, narrow eyes caught the Engineer's attention. The Sniper cracked a smile. "No worries! Hold tight." The following onslaught was the most gruesome thing the Engineer had seen the Sniper do. Not to say the Australian's work was always clean. Being shot in the head with a high-speed round tended to leave quite the soupy mess. It had nothing compared to the geysers of blood that came out of that pit. The Sniper drove his blade through the snake's back, finally severing its spinal column. As he pulled the sword back, the serpent dove at him. He ducked underneath its paralyzed flesh, blood splattering as it bit its dead tail. He reached out from beneath its body, striking it once more in the face. The two descended into the pit together, digging beneath dying tissue and splattering blood across the pit. This was no time to be repulsed. The Scout was slipping under the tide of scales, the Medic trapped within a sinking cage. He had to save them before he could worry about anything else. The Engineer jumped into the snake's pit, landing on his knees. He crawled towards the Scout, grabbing the Bostonian's hand before he slipped into the coils below. With a shove and a pull, the Engineer brought the Scout to the surface once more. He tossed the young man onto the floor above his head, then waded towards the Medic. The pit's monster was part stew bits, part blood by the time he'd reached the German. With a strong squeeze, his robotic hand shattered the lock on the Medic's cage. Both men clambered towards the pit's nearest edge. After pulling himself up, the Medic helped the Engineer to escape as well. "Look at the kid," the Engineer coughed. He could barely move, frozen by the thought of what he'd just sloshed through. The Medic took his order, quickly attending to the unconscious Scout. The Engineer gave the pair a quick glance, then turned his attention back to the pit. He held his human hand over his mouth, trying not to gag. No way. There was no way that those two could still be fighting, wriggling deep beneath the gory masses. With one last violent thrash, the pit's contents stilled. What scared the Engineer was not how quiet the prison had become. Quite the opposite. It was how loud the blood in his ears was pumping. He crawled towards the pit, watching for any signs of life. Everything was motionless. He fought the urge to dive in. He felt his shoulders lock up, his brain fighting his instincts. He edged towards the pit, prepared to jump in. There was a loud gasp. The Sniper breached the top, hauling himself over coils, spitting up blood. He scrambled towards the Engineer, coughing and wiping at his face. The Texan wrapped his arms around the lanky man's torso. He dug his heels into the ground, pulling the exhausted Australian onto the cold floor. No sooner had he done that then he saw something strange surfacing from the gore. He yelled as something white raised itself up, striking out to bite the Engineer. It caught him in his mechanical arm, threatening to pull him under. He fought back, his mind horrified by the skeletal face that was trying to drag him into its corpse. This serpent was beyond spiteful. Within one second, the Sniper had leapt onto his feet. He took his blade and slammed it through the skull of the infernal snake. Blood oozed out, the sword finding itself lodged in the beast's brain. It slackened the last remnants of its jaw muscles, then fell with a sickening plop onto the ground. The Engineer shook his robotic hand free, collapsing from shock. The Sniper sunk to the floor as well, his laughter dry and low. "Yer a goddamn psychopath," the Engineer panted. "I'm a bloody professional, thank ya very much," the Sniper wheezed back. "That one just got away from me." A dark shadow loomed over the two. They glanced up to find an extremely cross German carrying a young man in his arms. "Ve need to get moving. Zis boy should be dead by now. I don't know vat is keeping him alive, but I need to find an antidote for him." The Engineer got to his feet first. "Poisoned? Ah, lord." "If whoever owned zis zing vas a responsible owner, he vould have an antidote nearby." The Medic dumped the Scout into the Engineer's arms. The stronger American was used to hauling things around all day. Might as well put him to work. "At least, I vould not vant to be bitten and killed by mein own pets. Zen again, I'm not a dummkopf who vould keep such a monstrosity locked up in mein cellar." The Engineer frowned. "Ain't seen a lot of Hitchcock movies, have ya, Doc?" Tipping his head towards the door where they had come from, the Sniper said, "Nothin' that way, Doc. Best keep pressin' forward." Scrunching his nose, the Medic complied. "If you say so." As he headed towards the next door, he mumbled, "Zank you, schweinhunds." The troop moved on, all tattered and worn. Immediately, the Sniper regretted telling the Medic about moving forward. Several rooms along their path were torture chambers. Archaic devices lined the walls, corpses with paper-thin skin left in painful repose. The Medic paused once to fetch a serrated blade, then caught up with the group. He paid no attention to the horrors around him, simply focused on finding anything that he could use. The Engineer spent a great deal of time fussing over the Scout, not sure what to do. It was with some luck that the Medic finally located something. He turned away from the group, breaking into a dilapidated doorway. "Ah, yes. Here ve go." The Sniper cocked his head to the side, confused. "What's up, Doc?" The Medic nodded towards some symbols on the door. There were three of them, mostly worn down by time. The only clear one looked to be some kind of owl. However, it was legible to the Medic. He murmured "Imhotep", then strolled inside. The Engineer smirked, understanding what the doctor was getting at. It took a little longer for the Sniper, but he recalled the meaning of the Medic's words in time. He wasn't sure whether to take the hieroglyphs' appearance as a strange turn of fate or just a routine occurrence. The room they entered was ghastly. It was less like an infirmary, more like a morgue. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls of the room, patterned jars dribbling black substance onto the floor. Stone slabs lay in rows, bodies piled on top of them. Crudely cut coffins were in the back of the room. Something shiny was leaking out of them as well, but it was hard to tell what it was so far back and in such low light. As timid as the Engineer and the Sniper were about entering the room, the Medic was quite the opposite. He set about preparing for his work. With one sweep of his hand, he pushed a corpse off of one of the slabs. "Vell, bring him here," the Medic said, patting the slab. The Engineer scrunched up his face. "Ain't polite to disrespect the dead, Doc." The Medic rolled his eyes. "I'm not putting ze living on ze floor. Now, come here." The Engineer did as the Medic bid. He placed the Scout down, studying the kid. The young man was colorless, almost as white as the brittle corpses in this chamber. As the Medic fumbled about, neither the Texan nor the Australian knew what to do. It was surprising how fast the good doctor was flying through the room. Sure, both of them expected him to be well-versed in a variety of medicines. Ancient Egyptian practices, though? "Doc, how d'ya know so much 'bout this stuff?" the Sniper asked. The Medic smiled, fetching a vial from the top of one of the shelves. "Vell, in ze process of developing my healing gels, I researched many zings. Most men vould say I vas mad for studying ancient medicine. But who's laughing now, hmm?" He smiled, popping off the lid to the container. "Ze one who still has his voice box, zat's who!" Both the Sniper and the Engineer pulled a face. The Texan responded, "Doc, I know ya lived through some tough times, but—" "Vat? Oh, no. Nozzing like zat," the Medic laughed. "Ze ver chain smokers. I vas ze only one from medical school who didn't develop laryngeal carcinoma!" He set to work on the Scout, poking his wounds and slathering golden ooze onto him. The Sniper scratched his head. "What is that medicine you're puttin' on him?" The Medic straightened his spine, checking over his work. "Vell, if my hypozesis is correct—" "Agh! Holy crap, what was that?" The once still Scout now cracked himself upright. His heart was racing, his mind confused as hell. He patted over his chest with his hands, looking at the injuries on his body. Bloody holes sealed shut, dead tissue coming back to life. His eyes were wide, eyebrows furrowed. "What in the hell happened ta me?" "'Fraid a snake gotcha." The Sniper extended his hand, giving the Scout a firm handshake. The Scout shook back, but was fairly noodle-like with his grip. The Engineer took the vial from the Medic. "Doc, just what is this?" Adjusting his glasses, the Medic smirked. "I zought it vas a legend, but it vas certainly vorth a try." The Scout shook his head. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't tell me you just threw random crap on my body and thought it was a good idea!" "It's how I do most of my vork," the Medic shrugged. "At any rate. If you must know, zen it is a confection made from ze body of a mellified man." The Medic was hard enough to understand most days, with his thick accent and his tendency to ramble on in German when he was upset. That didn't sound like he had made an accidental switch into his native tongue. The Engineer lifted a hand to ask a question, but stopped midway through his thoughts. The Sniper pulled a face, disgusted by what the string of terms meant. The Scout didn't have to understand that loaded vocabulary to know that something gross had just been slathered all over him. The Scout fumed, "Holy crap! You put stuff made from a dead guy on me?" "Vell, it's a very complicated process!" The Medic began his matter-of-fact style of rambling. "First you must find a patient villing to go through ze process. Zen before zey die, you put zem on diet consisting of only honey. Zen you mummify zem for up to a century, and zen—" "Where in the 'ell did ya come across a bloomin' thing like that?" the Sniper asked. The Medic shook his head. "I haven't. It's a black market item, ja? I read about it in a pharmacology book from ze Far East. It's more myth zan anyzing." He glanced over the bottle once more. "Still, ze symbols matched up, so—" "If I wasn't convinced that this is a really bad nightmare, then I'd so kick your ass right now," the Scout grumbled. The Engineer raised both hands, trying to get his teammates to settle down. "This ain't the time fer fightin'. We need to find the Pyro and the Spy, then figure how to get outta this confounded castle." The Sniper sighed. "Well, if anybody's got a suggestion, now would be the toime ta share it." Thump! There was a knock from the back of the room. All four turned towards the source of the sound. Little pounds continued, emanating out of one of the stone caskets. The lid was sticking onto the slab. Golden slime dribbled out of the coffin as the pounding continued. It left tacky trails every time the lid opened and shut, like a salivating monster's hungry mouth. With one final shove, it flew off of the coffin, breaking into pieces on the dusty floor. Slowly, a body raised from the coffin, honey making a horrifying squelch as it rose to attention. Everyone shrieked—even the man from the casket.
I had to be eating honey toast at this exact moment, didn't I. I love this story so damn much, and I cannot wait for more. I'm curious to see what's become of Spy.
Another excellent chapter, I really liked it. I especially liked this part: He fought back, his mind horrified by the skeletal face that was trying to drag him into its corpse. This serpent was beyond spiteful. I'm used to monsters that keep fighting after getting killed (zombies are basically that), but a monster whose skeleton rips out of the corpse to keep fighting after death? Now that's something I've never seen before, and awesomely freaky to boot.
There aren't enough rip-roaring grand adventure stories in this fandom. Thank you for writing an absolute blast of one - and everyone so in-character down to the exclamations of surprise, too. Inaccurate, I'm sure, but also way too much fun for me to mind right now.
>>28 Sorry, but I love when that happens. Not that I meant to interrupt your snack, but it's fun when reality gives the story a boost. >>29 Gracias. Though, maybe Stripe from Gremlins would count as something like that? >>30 I do what I can. The lovin' comes later. More fighten'! Now, for a disappointing plot twist and some casual breaking of physics. If my villains aren't tying blonde gals to train tracks, then I'm not doing my job. Also, is it me, or are audio captchas horrifying? /***/ "Hu muddafuddas skuud muh!" "We scared you?" the Scout asked. "You scared da hell oudda us, ya mumblin' jerkface!" The Pyro pulled himself out of the coffin. Honey dribbled in gloppy puddles around him, sticking to everything he touched. He wobbled over to the party, woozy from his captivity. Without a second thought, he threw his arms around his teammates. The group hug left sticky globs on everyone. It was hard not to be a little grossed out, but at least they had him back. The Engineer tried wiping the substance from his shirt, but found it sticking to his prosthetic arm. "How in the hell d'ya survive bein' buried alive in that?" "Aif godda faffmaf und un offyffen phang. Duh," the Pyro said. He pointed to his muzzle and the tanks on his back, just to clarify what he'd mumbled. "Think I lost some hair," the Sniper winced. He studied his sternum for a moment, then returned to the conversation. "How d'ya end up down here?" The Pyro shrugged. "Ai foke ub bere." He jumped up a little bit, as if he were remembering something. "Ohf! Bud ven Ai dud, ferr waf dif fierd gie feer!" The Medic scrunched his brow. "Vat? Who was it?" "Ai dunno! Bud fe waf ferroundud bai fiya." The Pyro began gesturing wildly. He wobbled between two positions, his posture changing between both spots. It was clear that he was acting as himself and somebody else, but he was talking too fast to be clearly understood. "Fuh fuh fwa! Welkong do mai caddle, Pyro!" He scrunched down, scared. "Ooo rrr hu? Whud hoppenud du da Spai?" The Pyro snapped back up, his posture perfectly straight. "Dad duddun mudda. Cervfun! Difpoff a dis mumboin obamanazon!" He then fell backwards, screaming, "Faaaah! Spoosh!" Tilting his head up, he pointed back at his friends. "Ai dod Ai waff dud, bud den Ai erd hu gaif. Do, Ai dried da ged oud. Und ferr Ai mmm!" Everyone stood still, dumbfounded. It was hard enough to understand basic sentences from the Pyro. His rambling was much too quick to understand. The Medic scrunched his eyebrows, cocking his head. The Sniper scratched his scalp. The Engineer tried parsing the sentences over in his head, but they weren't coming out. The Scout gave up, just staring blankly at the Pyro. "I have no idea what da hell you just said." "Ohf, fa Goff fake!" the Pyro threw his hands into the air. The Engineer tried to calm the Pyro down. "Now, now. Just relax. You said something about another guy being here? And you haven't seen the Spy?" The Pyro nodded. "Daf ride." "Well, if this was a speakin' bloke, then we moight be in luck," the Sniper said. "I haven't seen anybody else 'round here that was of the talkin' type." The Scout agreed. "Now dat you mention it, yeah. Everythin' but us is either a monster or a dead guy." That brought a sharp smile to the Medic's face. "Vell, zen. Can you take us to zis ozzer man?" "Ai fink fo." The Pyro waved his hand, signaling for the team to follow him. The group didn't need to be told twice. Everyone fell in line behind the Pyro. He led them out of the strange room, heading back into the hall. A few torture chambers followed the hallway, all burdened with heavy devices and dead corpses. As they proceeded into a winding stairwell, everything faded from sight, swallowed up by dust, spider-webs, and darkness. What little light remained flickered helplessly, tiny candles giving off no more light than a firefly's ember. The shadows grew cold, their faces pale and indigo in the emptiness. The brush of a teammate's shoulder felt strange, as if their entire body had fallen asleep and could only respond to touch with pinpricks of pain. The Scout opened his mouth to speak. "Pyro, where are we going?" Nothing echoed this deep into the prison. It was as if his words had been trapped in his own mouth, cotton balls in his cheeks soaking up his thoughts. The Pyro turned to face him, his head bobbing. All he could sense was the slightest lens shimmers, a buzzing in his head like a hornet's nest. The others turned to face him, all confused. The stairwell narrowed, pressing the five men into each other. Even with skin against skin, everything was cold and numb. Air seized up in the Scout's lungs, claustrophobia beginning to gnaw away at his courage. Just as they were about to be squeezed into one being, the walls and floors dropped away from the group. The majority of them stumbled down old stone stairs, the Pyro being the only one to maintain his balance. A layer of water covered the ground of this room, cold and coated with a grimy film. Trickles ran down the walls, timid waterfalls leaking out of ancient piping. Thick mist settled about their waists, their legs lost in the fog. Rectangular holes were carved out of the walls. They stretched up for yards, each easily two meters long. Silk and cloth floated and waved in an invisible wind, draped out of each hole. All of the men knew what they were looking at. It was a massive catacomb. Yet, there was something wrong with this place. Even in the darkness, they could see something resting above their heads. Twin torch trails merged together, each one made of cast iron. The two closest to them flared to life, orange fire brighter than the sun. The next two down the line burst to life, then the next. They exploded, each rising and falling before its partner blossomed. The last two erupted like novas, the light blinding the men. Then, it roared into existence. It was hard to say what it even was. The being looked like a column of fire, blasting outwards and pinching into a vaguely humanoid shape. It had no legs, but it did have huge arms and broad shoulders, flares rolling off them in swirls. Two yellow flares sat inside the broiling body, like two eyes cut into existence with the tip of a blade. Shadows from behind the being were unable to stay in place. They jittered from left to right, up and down, erratic and unstable. "Pyro, buddy?" the Engineer asked. "What's that?" The Pyro shook his head. "Ai haff no fuddan ardeha." The swirling flare blasted towards the five men. Dust burst from the ground, coming at them like a tidal wave of sand. Ever the expert on combustions of all kinds, the Pyro stepped forward. A strange light emanated from his gloves, then pulsed outward as he threw some strange burst of energy at the flame. The power billowed around the Pyro, disrupting the wave around him. The most peculiar of events happened as wave was caught between the two fire-starters. The wave turned into molten glass, raining down in thick clumps around the team. The living blaze didn't stop, going straight through the hazard. The Scout led the retreat. "Run run run run run!" The team dove into the murky water around them. It offered little protection against the being. Steam hissed as it charged into the muck with them. The Medic tried counter-attacking the living flare. He gave the water a good thwack, pushing a wave over the fire. The flaming being was undeterred. It leapt after the Medic, steam rising in its wake as it rushed him. The battle became phenomenally one-sided once the creature dove underwater. It wasn't clear what the living flame was doing. After all, an average Joe would assume that submerging fire under water would probably be the end of it, even if it was supernatural. This wasn't the case. Instead of dying out, the flare burrowed into the earth beneath the Medic's feet. When it came back up, sand and debris sprayed out. The heat from the fiery being and the coolness from the water combined into a hellish wave of glass. It fanned around the Medic, then splattered down in a perfect hemisphere, trapping him within a thick shield. "Oh, crap!" the Scout exclaimed. Never one to let the supernatural hold him back, the Engineer rushed to the Medic's aid. "Hold on, Doc! I'll—" He didn't get too far before the flame doubled back. It rushed over him from right to left, crashing and speeding on. He growled, but didn't let his imprisonment slow him down. Grabbing onto the ripcord in his arm, the Engineer slammed his robotic fist into the glass surrounding him. There was an awful screech as the prosthesis ground against the shield. With a dozen sparks and a puff of smoke, the mechanics in his hand shorted out. He gasped, horrified at the damage he'd done to his own hand. A glass tougher than diamonds? There wasn't much he could do against something like that. It was out of the realm of anything natural. As the Scout, the Sniper, and the Pyro tried to escape the hip-deep water around them, the flare continued its pursuit. It bounced back and forth, leaving ribbons of glass in its wake. The three split in an attempt to throw it off-course. Like a vengeful sprite, it chased down the Pyro. It was becoming apparent that this thing not only had intelligence, but it was a little bit vindictive. The flame dove under his feet, then emerged in front of his face. He was shortly wrapped in a cocoon of glass, then shoved once more beneath the tide. The only thing that was able to escape the onslaught was the beak of his gas mask. It stuck out of the water and the glass, keeping the Pyro's face pinned to the surface like a kid who'd licked an ice-cold steel pole. With some phenomenal speed even for himself, the Scout hopped out of the water and onto a huge, multi-tiered dais. He reached out a hand, trying to help pull the Sniper out. Both of them paused when they heard a ghastly roar of steam and waves rush from the Pyro's direction. The Scout froze, not sure what to do. The Sniper growled, knowing he was going to regret this. He shoved the Scout out of the flame's range, then dived away from the young man. The split-second change spared the Scout from the oncoming wave, but the Sniper was not so fortunate. He was pinned to the edge of the water, pressed between a thick band of the glass and stone walls. He had just enough room to wriggle out of the water, but not enough room to do more than kneel beneath the dome's surface. Just as the Scout thought his number was up, the strange encounter became even odder as a harsh voice stopped the flame in its course. "That is enough!" It was then that the Scout realized that their hopeless struggle had been watched the entire time by another human. As he clicked his fingers, the energetic being hopped to his side, staying behind him like a doting servant. From head to toe, he was covered in white, loose fabric. His stride was smooth, fluid as silk. Flashes of red tainted his sleeves and leggings. Leather gloves and boots bound his hands and feet. A keffiyeh sat on his head, held in place by a gold and diamond-studded circlet. The fabric was much too long for his face, shielding his eyes. His jaw was coated in a thin layer of stubble, his face set in a condescending smirk. "Well?" the man demanded. "Who are you?" The Scout snapped back. "Who da hell are you?" The Sniper snapped to attention, confused. It was strange to hear the king laugh at the young man. Odder yet, it was a sound he recognized. The man ignored the strange expression in the Australian's face, continuing to focus in on the Scout. "I have been many men. Names are meaningless to me. I seek yours, yet you do not give it to me." The Scout snorted, "Yeah, well, names do me no good, either. Dese guys know me as da Scout." "I see," the man nodded. "Many men have come to me with long titles, names bearing centuries-old lineages. And yet, you identify yourself by only one word. How pitiful. The times are not good, are they?" "Hey, it's two words! Da 'da' part is important, too!" the Scout growled. "I wouldn't forget da 'Your Royal Highness' or 'Pharaoh' or 'Emperor' part to your name! Don't forget my 'da!" The Pharaoh grinned. "I have been all of those and more, 'The Scout'." The Scout winced. "Okay, now you're just bein' obtuse." That brought a short, derisive snort out of the Emperor. He laughed, the sound harsh and nasal, slapping the Scout once on the shoulder. That raised the hackles on the Engineer's neck. He shouted from his prison, "Don't ya dare hurt that kid!" "Did I allow my pet to harm him? No, I did not." The Pharaoh threw a threat back to the Engineer. "Keep quiet, you plebian." The Scout leaned to the side, glancing at the fiery being behind the strange ruler. "Dat's a pet, huh? Like—what, a genie or somethin'?" The Emperor waved his hand, glittering rings catching the Scout's attention. "He would prefer you not calling him that, but it is what he is. Perhaps if you were cleverer, you could have caught him like I did many eons ago." "Well, dat's cool. I guess. Thought dey all looked like Barbara Eden," the Scout pulled a face. The Pharaoh did not respond to his joke, simply staring at him with a cold, stern grimace. The Scout peeked under his hood, watching the glare coming from beneath. The Pharaoh raised a hand to his face, pulling his keffiyeh further down. Geez, that was a death glance that he was familiar with. "You may wonder why I spared you," the Emperor said. The Scout nodded. "A little bit. But ta be honest, pal, I want ya ta—" The Pharaoh shushed the boy. "You're the first person in over four thousand years that has wielded my blade and committed suicide with it." Now, that number startled the Scout. "F-four thousand years?" The suicide part had the rest of his teammates more concerned. The Sniper gnashed his teeth. "Kid, why'd—" "I would hold your tongue, if I were you. You would not want me to take it from you." The Emperor turned back to the Scout. "How did you come across my blade?" The Scout shrugged. "I—I saw da Sniper attack da Engineer with it. Den, poof! He was da Engineer. I figured it'd have ta be da enemy Spy 'cause he shape-shifts like dat, so I shanked him with his own dumb weapon. Den I got dizzy and passed out." The Pharaoh scowled, his face scrunched up. "But, why did you kill yourself?" The Scout shook his head. "Look. I was being interrogated by my buddies, 'kay? And da Soldier was blabberin' about hara-kiri being honorable, and I remembered some kinda crap about the weapon bein' wielded by a true and honorable person, and I figured, 'What da hell? I'll just end up respawnin!' I was so desperate ta get outta dat little room. Hell, just ta get the voices in my head ta shut up! Figured it wouldn't hurt ta show dem dat I was still legit, too. Man, everybody was so scared." Taking time to process this information, the Emperor circled the young man. He would take a moment to eye the prisoners, smirking at their concerned expressions, then turned back to the Scout. "So, then. You killed the man who wielded my blade last, then killed yourself to prove yourself honorable in the eyes of your companions." "Well, geez. Nothin' ta make a big fuss over," the Scout replied. The Pharaoh laughed again, shaking his head. "How modest. Let me guess—you would like me to have my pet release your little friends? Just go on your merry way back to wherever you came from?" The Scout nodded. "Da Spy too, 'a course. Assumin' you'll let me." "That might be a little complicated, my friend." The Emperor lifted his keffiyeh to confirm what everyone else already suspected. A strange sensation twisted in the Scout's stomach. He'd sort of expected that the reserved, secretive assassin looked like this. His balaclava really didn't hide that much, as far as facial features went. His nose was fairly flat, going down almost straight. His ears stuck out a little, but not a whole lot. The blue eyes were a given—even his mask didn't hide that. The Scout knew that the man's hair was some shade of brown, something that would match his eyebrows. He was a little surprised to see how sharp the man's widow's peak was. Even if he could pretty much piece together what the man would look like without his mask, seeing the Spy without his balaclava for the first time was more shocking than if he'd caught him completely naked. "I can see dat," the Scout agreed. "Ain't leavin' without him, though. So, you just hop oudda him, and let us go on our way. Den you can continue whatever the hell it is you were doin' with dat genie, da huge snake, da zombie girls 'n dead people 'n stuff. Come on. Whaddya say, pal?" "I think you will find my solution to your problem to be much more tragic." The Pharaoh—the stranger in the Spy's body—slipped his hand to his side. He retrieved a blade from his belt, the spitting image of the knife that had doomed the entire room. "I will stay in this Spy fellow's body until it rots away. Of course, your little friends will asphyxiate before then. Before that, though, I will let them watch you get slaughtered. After that, it will be business as usual. I go back to tricking ruffians into killing each other, and they in turn receive the tortures they so justly deserve. It is nothing personal, really." The Scout backed away, fumbling for the wolf-headed blade he'd had before. Geez, did he lose in the snake pit? "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What? Why?" "My friend cannot kill you. It is unfortunate, but true. Technically speaking, you never took an innocent life with this blade. Just those who had already been corrupted by it." The Emperor tipped the knife's point towards the Scout. "He's sworn to never kill those who are clean. That just leaves the job to me. I cannot have children like you running loose here and potentially undermining my power, after all. " The Scout growled. "Pretty sketchy morals, dude." The Spy-Pharaoh smirked. "Now, be honest. Did either of us ever fight fair?"
Could somebody delete my previous post? I'm rewriting the chapter, so it'll be scrapped.
In my gut I suddenly felt that you had updated. MY GUT WAS RIGHT. For once. This is amazing, I love all the twists.
Squeals. I'm so glad to come across good stories that aren't dead.
I really liked this chapter :) One detail in particular that I loved was this one: "I can see dat," the Scout agreed. "Ain't leavin' without him, though. Call it team spirit, camaraderie, comradeship, brotherhood, extended/surrogate family, nakama... Call it whatever you want, the point is that I'm a total sucker for it. So many TF2 fanfiction focus on a single pairing or a single friendship, portraying the remaining characters as distant coworkers at best. It's a rare treat to find a fic that portrays all the mercenaries as a team, a group of people who may not particularly like each other but will still look after each other. Besides the interesting adventure and awesome imagery and naked wet Sniper, this is the thing I've been enjoying most of all in your fic: the guys are comfortable with each other, care for each other, don't hesitate to risk their lives to save each other. I love it!
>>35 Agree 100%. The classes in this fic actually seem to like each other! They're willing to throw themselves in harm way to save their friends! They're all badass and can actually fight! None of them are homophobic or a creepy molester! While I don't necessarily mind less savory interpretations of the classes in afanfic, I'll say that most writers don't have the skill to pull it off effectively. Having a fic that focuses on group adventure with actual camaraderie helps balance these bad fics out.
Oh, man. You guys are breaking my heart. I'm sorry to do this. I am. I just couldn't let the other chapter slide. I guess I'll leave the old version up for the time being, but it just wasn't good enough. I felt like it was lacking in a lot of respects. I rewrote the chapter. Some parts I recycled and saved, but I threw out a good chunk. I didn't feel like it was evenly balanced for the entire team. I mean, I do try to strive for a balanced team representation in these stories. (Arguably, I'm not doing justice to the Soldier, the Demoman or the Heavy this time, but I'll make it up later.) I posted an entire rant about why I did this on my Tumblr, if you are interested. My user ID is demonfox38. You should find the explanation under a post called "Why I Rewrote Chapter Seven - Your Eternal Reward." I hope this better lives up to your expectations. Your standards are high, and I seek to meet them. /***/ "Hu muddafuddas skuud muh!" "We scared you?" the Scout asked. "You scared da hell oudda us, ya mumblin' jerkface!" The Pyro pulled himself out of the coffin. Honey dribbled in gloppy puddles around him, sticking to everything he touched. He wobbled over to the party, woozy from his captivity. Without a second thought, he threw his arms around his teammates. The group hug left sticky globs on everyone. It was hard not to be a little grossed out, but at least they had him back. The Engineer tried wiping the substance from his shirt, but found it sticking to his prosthetic arm. "How in the hell d'ya survive bein' buried alive in that?" "Aif godda faffmaf und un offyffen phang. Duh," the Pyro said. He pointed to his muzzle and the tanks on his back, just to clarify what he'd mumbled. "Think I lost some hair," the Sniper winced. He studied his sternum for a moment, then returned to the conversation. "How d'ya end up down here?" The Pyro shrugged. "Ai foke ub bere." He jumped up a little bit, as if he were remembering something. "Ohf! Bud Ai fah fumfen furd!" The Medic scrunched his brow. "Vat? You saw somezing?" "Ai dunno phut phis phaz! Bud if waf woofud raike ra fiya. Phall 'Doosh' und "Woosh" und fuff. Ai phull donf, fen Ai waff ferr." The Pyro began gesturing wildly. Tilting his head up, he pointed back at his friends. "Ai dod Ai waff dud, bud den Ai erd hu gaif. Do, Ai dried da ged oud. Und ferr Ai mmm!" Everyone stood still, dumbfounded. It was hard enough to understand basic sentences from the Pyro. His rambling was much too quick to understand. The Medic scrunched his eyebrows, cocking his head. The Sniper scratched his scalp. The Engineer tried parsing the sentences over in his head, but they weren't coming out. The Scout gave up, just staring blankly at the Pyro. "I have no idea what da hell you just said." "Ohf, fa Goff fake!" the Pyro threw his hands into the air. The Engineer tried to calm the Pyro down. "Now, now. Just relax. So, you saw somethin' weird? Like, a critter or a feller or—" The Pyro shook his head. "Ai haff naw fudden aedear." "Well, we moight as well go see what it was," the Sniper shrugged. "Anythin' that moight get us outta here." The Scout agreed. "Works for me. Long as there's not another giant snake." A sharp smile crept onto the Medic's face. "Vell, zen. Can you take us to zis strange zing?" "Ai fink fo." The Pyro waved his hand, signaling for the team to follow him. The group didn't need to be told twice. Everyone fell in line behind the Pyro. He led them out of the strange room, heading back into the hall. A few torture chambers followed the hallway, all burdened with heavy devices and dead corpses. As they proceeded into a winding stairwell, everything faded from sight, swallowed up by dust, spider-webs, and darkness. What little light remained flickered helplessly, tiny candles giving off no more light than a firefly's ember. The shadows grew cold, their faces pale and indigo in the emptiness. The brush of a teammate's shoulder felt strange, as if their entire body had fallen asleep and could only respond to touch with pinpricks of pain. The Scout opened his mouth to speak. "Pyro, where are we going?" Nothing echoed this deep into the prison. It was as if his words had been trapped in his own mouth, cotton balls in his cheeks soaking up his thoughts. The Pyro turned to face him, his head bobbing. All he could sense was the slightest lens shimmers, a buzzing in his head like a hornet's nest. The others turned to face him, all confused. The stairwell narrowed, pressing the five men into each other. Even with skin against skin, everything was cold and numb. Air seized up in the Scout's lungs, claustrophobia beginning to gnaw away at his courage. Just as they were about to be squeezed into one being, the walls and floors dropped away from the group. The majority of them stumbled down old stone stairs, the Pyro being the only one to maintain his balance. A layer of water covered the ground of this room, cold and coated with a grimy film. Trickles ran down the walls, timid waterfalls leaking out of ancient piping. Thick mist settled about their waists, their legs lost in the fog. Rectangular holes were carved out of the walls. They stretched up for yards, each easily two meters long. Silk and cloth floated and waved in an invisible wind, draped out of each hole. Material shimmered beneath the fabric, catching faint ribbons of blue light. All of the men knew what they were looking at. It was a massive catacomb. Yet, there was something wrong with this place. Even in the darkness, they could see something resting above their heads. Twin torch trails merged together, each one made of cast iron. The two closest to them flared to life, orange fire brighter than the sun. The next two down the line burst to life, then the next. They exploded, each rising and falling before its partner blossomed. The last two erupted like novas, the light blinding the men. What the fire revealed was both horrifying and beautiful. The Scout dropped his jaw. "Holy mudda 'a mercy." There was a long stone dais above the ascending stairwell. Lying at the top was a peculiar casket. It looked as if it had been made for a member of royalty. Someone lay beneath its surface, clothed in white robes. The garment was stained, flecks of red standing out against the otherwise pristine clothing. The rectangle was molded perfectly to its contents, flawless glass carved into the shape of a man. The glass spilled down the sandstone slab beneath the body, pooling like the finest silk at its base. Flames danced off of it, its brilliance casting iridescent rays into the darkness. The sarcophagus could put any diamond to shame. Most of the team was hesitant to approach the coffin. They moved with respectful, slow steps. The Scout was much more impatient, racing to the top. It was there that he began panicking. "Oh, crap. Oh, dammit. Oh, damn hell crap dammit." "Fine vocabulary you have there, Scout," the Engineer rebuked his youthful friend. The Scout yanked his teammates up the stairs. "No, you guys gotta see this!" From further back, it had been hard to tell who was in the sarcophagus. The light had disrupted so much. Now that they were standing next to the casket, it was clear as day as to whom it contained. A quiet awe spread through the teammates. They had worked together for years, standing side by side, collapsing and dying in each others' arms. Still, some secrets remained. Names were hidden until trust was earned. Stories were buried until they could be gently unearthed. Most importantly, nobody saw the Spy's face. Nobody. And yet, there it was, plain as day. Not to say that he had a plain face. It was interesting in its own way. His ears stuck out just a little, his flat nose almost a straight line down, his widow's peak a little too sharp. Hell, there were even the errant hairs here or there that were silvered. It was a forbidden sight, and they all felt dumbstruck seeing it for the first time. The Sniper leaned over the coffin, studying it with a narrowed gaze. He gave a few knocks on the glass, murmuring softly, "Poor bugger. That's no way ta go." He nearly tumbled and landed on his ass when the Spy's eyes shot open. Nobody knew what to say. The Spy was in shock, staring at them all like he was convinced this was some kind of nightmare. The rest of them were terrified, knowing they had broken the Spy's cardinal rule about secrecy. His face burned red, and they winced, fearful of what he was going to say. All things considered, he was much more concerned about his potential asphyxiation than anything else. "Get me out of here!" Ever the workhorse, the Engineer got down to business. He pulled the ripcord on his arm, then buried his prosthesis into the glass at the base of the coffin. Sparks flew, the glass shrieking as the Engineer wielded his arm like a buzz saw. Bits and pieces broke away, falling to the ground in a fine powder. "Mighty strong stuff. Just ain't enough." The Medic sought to take care of the rattled patient in the coffin. "Save your breath, ja? Not sure how you are still alive, Kamerad." "Man, Frenchie! How'd ya get yourself into dis?" the Scout asked. The Spy looked like he wanted to tear the Scout's head clean off. "If I could remember, you little virgin, I'd—" He paused for a moment, his head spinning. They were here. They were all here. He could recall killing each and every one of them, save for the Scout. The man in the bedroom, in his bath, in his infirmary, in his room, in his shop, his stable, his palace, his—He found himself gasping for air, his memories and those of others cascading like one huge waterfall. The air was growing humid, the oxygen disappearing from his tomb. It was happening again, wasn't it? And he deserved it. He deserved every time he suffocated in this grave, watching as the lights, trickles, and darkness mocked him. They were everywhere, living in every jittery shadow behind every torch. "Hold steady, ya coward. Just about gotcha." The Engineer barked at his teammates, "Would one 'a ya help me pull this off?" The Sniper was the first to respond, digging away at loose shards and flinging them behind his back. The Pyro followed shortly afterwards, peeling glass back as the Engineer cut it free. The Scout kicked at some of the separated pieces, smiling each time a layer crashed off like melting ice. Even the Medic set to work, alternating between reassuring the Spy and cracking at the Engineer's cuts. "You're going to make it through," the Medic reassured the Spy. "Do not worry." The Sniper agreed. "Roight on. Can't let ya die before we get ya back to our base. Then we can kick yer arse, and respawn can patch ya up!" A strange scoff came from the Spy's tomb. He snorted, his humor returning slowly. "I may have to gouge your eyes out. Zere is no man living who has seen me wizzout my mask." "Oy! Ya murdered me in moi birthday suit!" the Sniper snapped back. "The least ya can do is settle down about the rest of us seein' yer mug!" Ignoring the spat, the Engineer pushed against the crack he'd cut. A huge clump shattered in his robotic hand. Air seeped through the bottom of the sarcophagus, a cooling rush sweeping over the Spy's body. He took a deep breath, surprised with how fresh even air from the catacombs felt in comparison to the coffin's environment. He wondered how many times he'd suffocated and died down here. Perhaps the respawn machine was saving him, even here? Or was this a Sisyphean torture? The Engineer smiled. "There. We're makin' some good progress." "Oh, yeah!" the Scout panted. "Not a problem! I could do this all damn day." "Dund phe suht a bey—berr!" the Pyro yelped. He drew his right hand back, scarlet blood trickling down his hands. It was surprising, really. Out of everyone, he had at least the second-best protection against the sharp glass. Still, he'd made a pretty nasty cut. He growled, turning back to pulling the on the glass. He left tacky red globs on the glass, shards sticking to the honey still stuck on his suit. He grumbled, paying no attention to his injuries. He was getting overheated, and even for the Pyro, that got irritating. Wiping his head with the back of his arm, the Scout puffed. "Geez, did it get hot in here, or is it just me?" "Thought it was me," the Sniper smirked, a cheeky grin at his teeth. The Medic rolled his eyes. "Please. If it's anyone, it's—hmm, it is a little warm, ja?" "What, ya little flowers never—" the Engineer began, but stopped. No, something was off. He glanced around, muttering. "Sure got a lot brighter in here." The Spy tried rolling his head to the right. He couldn't turn it much, but he could see his friends working away at freeing him. He studied the shadows, wondering what was going on. The coffins in the distance seemed strange, brighter. Or was it the light coming from the torches? He watched quietly, observing embers rolling and spilling out. How spirited. He pursed his lips together, listening as some splashes accompanied the trickling pipes. No, there was something new. "Do you hear zat?" the Spy asked. Everyone paused for a moment, trying to figure out what the Spy was talking about. There were low splashes echoing through the chamber. It wasn't much, nothing louder than a carp jumping in and out of a lake. The sound happened randomly, slurping in spurts. Something was scraping against the floor, like wet cloth tearing on bricks. Gold light from the torches didn't reach out far enough in the runoff to see what it was. They waited quietly, hesitant to turn their backs. "We really should get movin'," the Scout said. Then he screamed as light flared from inside of his body. The instinct to run from the shrieking young man was suppressed by a greater fear for his life. Something was glowing in his stomach, round and no larger than a baseball. He whined twice, clutching his sides. With a nauseating heave, the light travelled up his throat. It stayed in his head for just one moment, bones visible beneath glowing, pink skin. The ball rolled out of his mouth. It tumbled in the air, an amber will o' the wisp churning with life. The Medic got the nerve to speak before anyone else. "Vell, zat's new." "Thanks for your concern, Doc," the Scout coughed. "Man, did I just puke up my soul?" "I think we've overstayed our welcome," the Engineer murmured. "Let's get the Spy outta here before—" It wasn't long before the same gut-twisting event happened to the Engineer. He collapsed to his knees, unable to stand under the powerful throws he was undergoing. The Sniper knelt next to him, trying to keep his teammate from fainting into a pile of glass. The same strange choking struck him, his entire frame shuddering with the revolting action. It wasn't long after flares had escaped the two of them that the Medic stumbled under the same sickness. Even with the strange heat billowing in his body, he found himself shivering. The Pyro wasn't far behind him, flares emanating from his mask like a dragon's mouth. Feeling the same burning building within him, the Spy closed his eyes, hoping the pain would be over shortly. As a fireball escaped his lips, his entire body melting with his illness, the glass began to soften around him. The wisp shot out through the hole his teammates had dug free, leaving his coffin no stronger than smooth butter. He hollered as hot glass smothered his face, burning his skin and clothes under its scorching caress. He rolled onto his stomach, pushing the hot glass forward with his back. The Pyro and the Engineer scrambled to help him, using what protection they had to shield themselves while saving the Spy. The Medic tossed his gloves to the Sniper, then dashed for the water. He threw off his lab coat. Scooping up as much water as he could into his coat, the Medic began his rush back to the Spy's sarcophagus. He only hesitated for one moment when he saw a strange set of flickers approaching the dais. He cursed once in his native tongue, then emptied his coat's catch onto the coffin. The glass stiffened under the sudden wave, folded back like a peeled banana. Yanking the Spy free, the Medic did not stop for long. "Ve must go now! Zere is somezing in ze water!" "Medic, I do not know how to get out of here," the Spy panted. His face was tender, but he would live. The Medic was panting, frantic. "Vell, ve cannot go back zat way!" "Why not?" the Scout asked. Nobody had to answer him. He could see what the Medic was talking about. More embers were erupting from the water. Well, that wasn't completely correct. The flames were coming from people in the water. Zombified men were stumbling from their hot coffins, steam rising from their backs as glass cooled around their rotting forms. Their eyes were bright with gold light. One fell as the fire within him burst forward, then another. Having been dead for so long, they couldn't withstand the heat escaping them. Worse yet was what was happening to the rolling fire that came from the men. Wisps leapt from lantern to lantern, swirling together in capricious spheres. Flames licked forward, sucking as much heat and life into itself as it could. It grew bigger, wilder as more men collapsed, their little flickers adding to the waning creature. It wasn't long before the ball took on another strange feature. Something jagged cut across its surface, flares jutting like crooked teeth as a black void settled around it. "Fun fuf fa biff," the Pyro muttered. It was hard to tell if he was fascinated or terrified by the building fire. The Spy grimaced. "If anyone has an escape plan, now would be ze time to share it."
I kept forgetting to check this one out. Now I regret checking it out, because it's not finished yet, and I wanna see what happens next. I do agree that your rewrite of the latest chapter was more interesting than the original version; as someone with a bad habit of repeatedly altering and reposting things after I discover mistakes or feel dissatisfied, I can definitely sympathize.
Great job man! Keep up the good work. Oh, BTW, little pet peeve of mine which refuses to stop hugging me - the Pyro pronouncing the vowels. It's just a head-canon problem though. No worries, as the Sniper would say, "Good job mate!"
I like the newer version even better, I must admit. Both are good, but I like the new one better, and I look forward to seeing more.
Ah yes, I also prefer the newer version. I am sitting at the edge of my seat though in excitement!
The ending should be up sometime tomorrow. Until then, here's this part. Captcha: THE Docnta. Docnta Who? /***/ Fire scorched the backs of the six fleeing men. There was no clear path for their escape. The place that they had come from was dilapidated, crumbling into the waste pool at the base of the ancient stairwell. Not to mention that a literal army of the undead was collapsing next to it. It was a strange sight, watching as small fireballs erupted from their bodies and melted them away. The flames were coming from old injuries, slashes across chests and stabs to their backs. Their energies had coagulated into some fearsome deity, a rolling, silent, grinning nova. Now it was seeking to snatch men running below it. "Okay, Pyro. It's a big fricken' fire ghost thing." The Scout was by far the most panicked of the group. "How the hell do we kill it?" The Pyro shrugged his shoulders. "Fhudda fud foud Ai nrr?" The Engineer was panting hard, but managed to keep up with the group. "Suppose none 'a ya are qualified to bless water?" "I don't know how affective holy vater vould be," the Medic shook his head. "Vat is zat zing, anyway?" The Sniper gave the flaming embodiment a glance over, then guessed. "Jinn, perhaps?" The Spy shook his head. "Don't be daft. What in ze hell kind of—" A splatter to his left shut the Spy up. At first, it looked like someone had hocked a loogie at them. A pile of clear stuff was sprayed across some of the floor and the ceiling, a good deal of heat still rising from it. The Pyro tested it with his boot, then pulled away quickly. It was hot glass. The group watched as the fiery creature plunged his body into the cobblestone, pulling sand out of the ground. With another roll of steam and fire, another splotch landed dangerously close to the group. The Engineer barked at his disoriented teammates. "We've gotta move out! Now!" There were three immediate courses of action they could take. The first was to run through the jinn and try to clamber up the stairs before the dying army caught up to them. The second was to try and climb out using the recesses in the chamber, but again, that put them right in with the zombies. The third was to try and fight the demon. That was going to be impossible to do. Metal and fire weren't going to do anything to combat the flaming beast. Of course, there was also the option of sitting down and accepting their fates, but none of the men were going to take that action. Leave it to the Pyro to find another alternative. As he was stumbling away from the jinn, the Pyro placed his hand against one of the walls. It was then that his support pulled away from him. He fell on his back. After a round of cursing and swearing, he noticed that, much like any half-baked explorer, he'd found a hidden passage. He squawked to his friends, waving them over. Each man dashed by him, nearly stumbling in their escape. Just as the beast was about to catch up with them once more, he slammed on the hidden switch. The secret door dropped shut, trapping the team inside of the new room. "Good job, Mumbles!" The Scout gave the Pyro a thumbs up. "Now whe—he—hello, baby!" Stacks of gold as high as the ceiling surrounded the six men. Gemstones as colorful and tempting as fresh fruit overflowed from sturdy chests. Pearls littered the hoard like grains of sand. Their jaws hit the ground, awestruck by the sight. It wasn't just the treasure of one nation. It was as if a millennia of the world's most valuable items were simply tossed aside and abandoned like garbage. They were flabbergasted by the discovery. Their awe didn't last long. Scratching and banging was still happening on the door behind them. The living dead that had not been assimilated were fumbling for the switch, still trying to get into the room. The Sniper scowled, then fled to the other end of the room. The others were quick to follow, although some begrudged the retreat. "Seriously? Ya can't just take five ta help me pocket some 'a dis crap?" the Scout asked. The Sniper shook his head. "That flaming bastard can make glass outta dust in seconds flat. Now, imagine what it could do with a room full of soft metals." The Medic hissed, disturbed by the metal image. "I vould razzer not drown in a golden tide, zank you very much." "Yer assumin' we wouldn't melt first," the Engineer huffed. "Less talking, more evacuating," the Spy scolded the talkative group. He scrambled around a tower of precious gems, searching for a door out. He wondered how he could see anything in the first place. It wasn't as if there were be torches down here. His eyes wandered to the treasure for one moment, then frowned. How odd. The gemstones were luminescent. He snatched a stone from the pile, then held it up. The amber light shimmered across the mess, lighting up ancient elephant statues and strange curiosities. Everything seemed to shine in the darkness. It was in the far end of the room that he found what he was searching for. Hidden away in the upper corner of the room was a rotting wooden door. There was no stairwell up, to speak of. Rather, the treasure merely piled up to meet it. A crash behind the team startled them as coins rained down. The jinn and its followers had finally broken through. The Scout was the first to scramble to the Spy's discovery. He jumped over several piles, nimbly climbing up the wall and out the doorway. The Spy and the Sniper escaped next, both more careful as to not knock over their teammates' only way of escape. The Medic followed in turn, his feet not as steady. The Engineer took his own path, scaling up the treasure room simply by clawing up with his prosthesis. The Pyro was the last to reach the doorway. As he pulled himself through, the coins beneath his feet slipped and gave way. He landed on his chest, halfway in and out of the door. The Medic and the Engineer pulled him to safety, yanking him up by his suspenders. A golden splash followed his feet. It spilled into the new room, then began bubbling. The fiery demon was seconds behind it. Metal and flames licked the walls as it fought to catch up with its targets once more. "Muddahudda!" the Pyro huffed. The Sniper agreed. "Stubborn bastard, ain't he?" The six men bolted up a winding stairwell. Gears and chains rumbled through the center of the room as they ascended. The spirit was fast on their heels. It crashed through the spiral staircase, flinging mechanical garbage here and there. Flames rolled over their heads, singeing hair. It didn't help that the Engineer was flabbergasted with the contraptions they were running past, paying less attention to their escape. To be fair, they were rather peculiar, and he probably would have figured out their purpose if given a few seconds. Then again, it was the Medic's pull on his overalls that spared him from being barbequed. "Dis probably sounds like a dumb question right about now, but what in da hell is a jinn?" the Scout asked. The Engineer ducked beneath a sheet of flames as he gave the Scout an explanation. "The Sniper's usin' an old word fer genies. He's probably—yeowza!—referrin' to their old Arab name." The Scout growled, "You shitten' me? I thought dey were supposed ta live in bottles and grant wishes! Or at least wear little skimpy outfits and look after astronauts or somethin'!" As the Spy began pushing through their next escape route, he laughed at the boy. "Oh, sure! Go ask it for somezing! " In the Spy's defense, he didn't expect for the Scout to take him literally. The young man spun around on his heels, pausing for only one moment. He yelled behind his team. "Say, pally! Buzz off, would ya? I'd really like it if ya'd—Ack!" A column of fire erupted in the stairs below him. He didn't finish his request, instead bolting for the next door. As an explosion rocked behind them, the teammates scrambled out of the mechanical chamber. The Engineer growled, now realizing where they were. They were in the hall where he had awoken, statues flanking the bricked passages. The Scout shot the Engineer a strange look, remembering what they had fought when he'd first found the Texan. Both of them blurted at their teammates, but the Scout was louder by far. "Guys, don't be touchin'—" Wham! Hot glass landed in the center of two robots. The splash radius knocked over two of the statues. They in turn landed on two more, then those two another two. They crashed into each other, a domino chain unable to be stopped. As each touched one another, they stirred to life, gears whining from centuries of disuse. The team ran like madmen, unable to fight the building army. They ran—well, splashed—into the next corridor. Fighting an involuntary shudder, the Sniper glanced upstairs. He yelped when he found a torrent gushing from the now open women's bathhouse. Hungry ghouls tumbled down the waterfall, hands raking at their ankles. One went alit with fire, then the entire pack went. Everything was screaming, howling. Shrieks even escaped the less brave of the teammates. "Mmph!" the Pyro said. He signaled for the team to keep running, but charged in the opposite direction. He grabbed for the nozzle on his back, then began blasting oxygen at the jinn. Normally, this burst of air would extinguish his teammates. This time, it had an unexpected effect. Fire grew from the jinn with a terrible light, blinding them all and breaking some of the storming statues. When their vision came back, they found the Pyro reloading his tank with dirtied water. He then threw that at the jinn, hoping it would hold it back. Steam flooded the castle, their comrade lost in the haze. "Zat lunatic!" the Medic charged after the Pyro. He was stopped by a mechanical arm dragging him backwards. The Engineer hauled the Medic out to the courtyard. "He's buyin' us time! Let's go!" "Time to do what, exactly?" the Spy asked. "I suppose you've got a better—merde." The Scout, the Engineer, and the Sniper all gasped at the transformed courtyard. What had once been a barren, open graveyard was now filled with shambling monstrosities. Their eyes were full of fire, mortal injuries oozing, jaws slack and drooling. The red sky had gone black, the clouds thick and full of rust. The Medic hissed, uttering some foreign prayer for mercy. The Spy shook his head, not believing what he was seeing. Surely, this place had to be some level of hell. They all yelped as something came hurtling through a window behind them. The Pyro landed at their feet, coated in a thick layer of steaming glass. The Engineer tried digging into it. His mechanical hand stuck to the substance like tar. As he pulled back, glass trailed his hand in thick waves. He continued trying to free it, gears gummy and protesting. He glanced up for one moment, watching in horror as the jinn burst from the castle. It was only by disengaging his prosthesis that he was able to escape the oncoming blast of glass. "Poor bastard," the Sniper whispered. "Yeah, well, don't cry too long. We're next." The Scout grabbed one of the knives that he'd collected in this courtyard. He tossed another to the Sniper and the Spy, then slipped another into the Engineer's left hand. The Medic withdrew the saw he'd secured from the torture chamber, snarling as the hoard began melting into the jinn and circling the group. Even though the Engineer had lost his hand, he hadn't lost his mind. "Think I've got an idea." "'Bout time!" the Sniper cheered. "Yeah, well, it ain't gonna be a good one," the Engineer said. The Medic began the assault against the shambling hoard. He slashed one head from its body with a gruesome strength that most surgeons didn't have. A fire erupted from its neck, the swirl joining the building jinn. "Anyzing vould be good right about now!" "I'm thinkin' the Pyro had the right idea. Just not the right amount 'a stuff." The Engineer bashed a ghoul aside, throwing it into the broiling beast. "How d'ya put out a fire?" The Scout shook his head. "Dude, no. I ain't peein' on it. Get the Sniper ta do it." That earned him a dirty glare from the Australian. The Engineer growled, "Think about it! Fire requires two things—somethin' ta burn and, usually, oxygen. Now, I don't know what's fuelin' it, but I bet if we cut off its oxygen supply, it'll settle down." "And how do you suppose we do zat?" the Spy asked. The Engineer stepped behind an old caravan, glancing around. "We could try and get it ta trap itself in that glass. Or, we could drop the tower on—" He didn't get to finish his last thought. A wave of dust washed over the caravan, caking everything in the debris. Less than a second later, fire rolled over his head. His breath was knocked from his gut as something struck him square in the solar plexus. A blast of steam forced him back as water rushed around the blob of glass, hemorrhaging from the castle walls. It was with a cold chill that he realized that his number should have been up. He saw what should have been his fate as a man lay still under the crushed caravan, choking in the heat and the dwindling air beneath that glass dome. The Engineer struggled getting to his knees, his body still shaking with uncontrollable adrenaline surges. Having the Pyro struck down was bad enough. Losing the Sniper ripped the strength right out of him. The Spy was quick to take lead. He snapped at the Medic, "Tend to him!" The Medic gave him a salute, then started slicing through the wave of ghouls like a madman with a roaring chainsaw. He gave the Scout a nod. "You are coming wiz me, boy." The Scout reciprocated the action, then followed as the Spy rushed into the crowd. "Clue me in here, Frenchie," the Scout said. The Spy ducked beneath a ghoul, slashing its arm off as he ran. "First, we get ze jinn to soak up ze remainder of zese people. Zat should keep both ze Medic and ze Engineer safe." The Scout raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Den what?" The Spy smirked, but ignored the question. He rushed to the left, taking a sharp turn around the tower of the dead. Their pursuer followed, razing a quarter of the crowd. The Scout growled, annoyed that the Frenchman was keeping ahead of him. He raced up the side of the tower, bouncing down in front of the Spy. Both men kept pace, circling back and forth as the strange creature gobbled up the hoard like it was nothing more than stumpy little match-heads. "Did I ever tell you about zis one man from France?" the Spy began a light conversation, as if hell wasn't nipping at his heels. "He was zis naval officer stationed out in zis little island called Martinique." "Spy? Man? Dis is not a good time ta be tellin' be stories!" The Scout split from his companion for a moment, weaving out of the way as a pillar of fire blasted between them. The Spy pulled the Scout back. "Stay near ze wall. Zis is important." He turned his head backwards, his spine burning as heat began to build behind them. A dust cloud was growing, threatening to coat the two at as little provocation as a sneeze. "Zer was zis volcano zat went off on ze island. Some say zat zis man saved over seven hundred men. After zat, he began to develop zis program to help people improve zer speed and stamina." "Kinda want a conclusion before we die here!" the Scout yelped. He couldn't even see the rest of the world through the brown dust at his heels. The Spy nudged the Scout towards the wall. "When I tell you to jump, jump. Do you understand me, boy?" The Scout, nodded. He made one last nervous glance behind him as a rolling orange flare erupted. "Yeah, but—" "Ze man's name was George Hébert, and he would be proud of you." The Spy nudged the boy onto the wall. "Jump!" Instincts alone saved the young man. He jumped twice, clawing his way up the wall. Dust, flame, and molten glass rolled beneath his feet. It dragged on his soles, chewing away at the rubber. The clear wave surged over the rest of the hoard, crashing into the Spy. It hit him with a terrible, searing hiss. He pushed against it, rolling it back into his attacker. The glass splattered across half of its form, trapping it in a lumpy, misshapen marble. A small shriek escaped the Scout before he could squash it. That jinn was glaring at him now, smoldering in the dust. He started clambering up the tower, unsure of what to do. The cloud was now coming after him, the flaming beast seeking to smother him, too. It was with a sick realization that the Scout came to his own horrible idea. He could get a little bit of a vertical rise out of that wave of glass before it would crash back down. With no water to cool it, the wave would simply slop back down—onto the pursuing jinn. Well, it was all he could do from this precarious position. The Scout began leaping up the tower. His hands dug into any hold he could find. It wasn't long before he was coated in dust, his lungs seizing up. The heat was shortly behind him once more. Damn, he was hoping for more time. He gulped once, glancing behind him. It was a good thing that he couldn't see anything beneath him. This had to be a fatal distance to fall. Ah, hell. He had committed suicide already once today. Not like this was going to be something new. The Scout threw himself backwards. He spread his arms, feeling the rush of wind behind him. Hot glass coated his back as he fell into the burning jinn. Flames roared, then whistled as they were squashed into the folding glass. He rode the wave down, pain and misery blurring into emptiness. Bricks rushed past him, then dirt, then air. He felt as if he was tumbling forever, watching with sorrow as he saw his friends zip by. The Pyro, lying still beneath his shining tomb. The Engineer struggling to reach the Sniper's body, the Medic at his shoulder. The Spy, with his frame burning and melting. Everything fell to bits, the floor crumbling beneath him. He punched through several floors, then back into the void. He saw the castle—the floating castle? Who would have thought?—shrink and disappear into a brown dot in a black sky. He grew cold, air howling around him as he continued falling. He felt so heavy, so strange. At times, he felt like he could still see everyone, watch himself falling through the emptiness. He even felt like could still hear the Spy, as if the stricken and dying man was the wind whispering in his ear. The world burned out.
Damn I hope this has a happy ending. I'm fine if it doesn't, but deep inside, I want all stories to end happily.
This. Is. Genius.
I love how you write action scenes, I was sitting on the edge of my seat. I can't wait for the ending!
In the Spy's defense, he didn't expect for the Scout to take him literally. The Scout shook his head. "Dude, no. I ain't peein' on it. Get the Sniper ta do it." That earned him a dirty glare from the Australian. In the midst of all the action, drama and horror, those lines made me laugh out loud. You write a great Scout.
Btw, I'm a little confused, what was that ball of light that the characters vomited in the previous chapter? It seemed kinda random.
Let's finish this off and find out, then! Millia, I totally blame you for two parts of the following chapter. But I mean that in the nicest way. I like to end things on an ambiguous note. /***/ The morning sun had risen once more. Its white light sterilized the living quarters of the team, streaming in warm bands through clean windows. The Heavy paused only for a moment, watching doves dart back and forth into a hatch adjacent to the Medic's infirmary. A stubborn smile stayed on his face, even with the hopelessness of his situation weighing him down. There was much work to be done today. It was hard to say what the team was responsible for, but he assumed a meeting with the Administrator was inevitable. There were other chores as well. Cleaning. Laundry. Feeding the Medic's birds. Little things. Many little things. He could keep himself occupied. He didn't have to think. Just work. The Heavy made his way over to their bathroom. The door was slightly ripped from the hinges. Probably from when—no. He shook his head, pushing more thoughts aside. He didn't have to think about it yet. There were other things he could ponder. It was strange, being the only one in the bathroom. While the Demoman never woke up early, the Soldier often was up with the sun. Neither man had shown his face yet. Miss Pauling hadn't appeared, either. So perplexing. He thought he heard strange sounds in the night, like someone was— No. It was time to brush his teeth. The Heavy unscrewed the cap from his toothpaste. His toothbrush was a bit too small for his hands, but it still worked. He squeezed a thick line of green ooze onto the brush, then began scrubbing his teeth. It was easy to focus on attacking his gums. Tiny little germs were easy prey. He rubbed a little too hard, cutting his gums. It didn't hurt, but the blood was unsightly. He spat into the sink, then ran the tap. Blood and foam washed down the drain. He watched the swirl, hypnotized for one moment. Well, might as well shave. He didn't like shaving the stubble on his massive chin, but since he most likely had to report to the Administrator today, he might as well look clean. He rummaged for the shaving cream behind the mirror. Giving the canister a good shake, he grimaced. It was about empty. Stupid baby Scout must have been pretending to shave again. He'd never fool anyone. He couldn't grow a beard. The Heavy held his hand open, flipping his palm back. The Medic passed him his canister. It wasn't the Heavy's favorite brand, but it would— Both men stopped. The Heavy was dumbstruck. What was this, some sort of hangover? A hallucination? He cocked his head to the left, studying the Medic's face. The Medic looked just as confused, his eyes going from a squint to wide open. He fumbled for his glasses on the sink, placing them crooked on his nose. The Heavy hesitated for one second. He raised a wide finger, then poked the Medic in the shoulder. Cotton, skin, and bone resisted. He was solid. Real. The delightful cheer that escaped the Heavy could be heard through the entire base. "Doctor!" With no delay, he snatched up the German man. A round of bombastic laughter escaped the large Russian, resonating in the bathroom and inside the Medic's ribcage. He struggled to escape the Heavy's grasp, his toes barely touching the floor. It was only through a few grunts and taps that he was finally able to get the Heavy to put him down. "How? When? What—Doctor, I—" The Heavy struggled to form a coherent thought. He grasped the Medic's hand. Yanking the two of them out of the bathroom, he began spewing everything that was in his head. "Doctor, how? Oh, and Archimedes! Pavlov and Keldysh—is good names? So tiny! Ugly, right now, but I think—" "Settle down! I can't understand you!" the Medic sighed. The Heavy clapped his huge hands on the Medic's shoulders. "Babies, doctor! On your desk!" Their reunion was interrupted by a mouthy friend. "For God's sake, I don't wanna hear about you guys's Eastern European love fe—oh, my God." Both the Medic and the Heavy turned to stare at the dumbfounded Scout. He patted himself down. "I'm alive? I'm alive! Holy crap! Eat it, ya flamin' bastard! Hope ya freeze in hell!" The Heavy shook his head, confused. "Doctor, vat in the—" "Oy! Would ya bunch 'a ninnies—oh, cripes! I'm seein' ghosts!" The Demoman interrupted and then bolted from the celebration. He came back out of his room fully armed, flinging bulbs of garlic at the three in the hallway. "Back! Back, ye sinners!" The Medic beaned one back at the Demoman. "Ve are not ghost! And zis only vorks against vampires, you dummkopf!" "Vampires? This sounds like a job for—hey, wait a second!" The Soldier stormed out of his room, his helmet clashing with his pajamas. He growled once, scrunching up his face. "I don't know about you, Baron Von Healenstein, but I know that that little yippie bastard is toast! I saw you kill yourself!" A second helmeted man nodded in agreement. He scratched his chin, then jumped as his mind kicked on. "That means the regenerator's—Outta my way!" The Engineer dashed past the quarrelling lot, rushing to the stairwell as fast as his legs would take him. The Soldier's jaw dropped, now more confused than ever. He was puzzled as a crash echoed from the stairwell. Leave it to the egghead to crack his skull open just as he'd revived. The Soldier jogged over to the staircase, prepared for the worst. He snorted once, then shook his head. The Engineer hadn't fallen far. Collapsed in a heap on the landing between the second and first floors were the short Texan and the lanky Australian. Both were laughing, rubbing sore spots. Apparently, they'd rounded the corner a little too fast. The Engineer gave the Sniper a pat on his flank. "I gotta check the respawn generator. Be right back." "Roight, then." The Sniper stumbled up to the second floor, trying to hide his embarrassment from the Soldier. "Tripped a bit." The Soldier snickered. "Sounds like you're volunteering to run my obstacle course for the next two weeks." "What, ya mean that five minute skip through the tire field?" the Scout asked. He shook his head. "Please, man. Ya gotta add some walls or hurdles or somethin'. Making a couple 'a flamin' hoops." The Pyro agreed. "AI raike dad aidear." Now everyone was swarming the man in the gas mask. He greeted them all in turn, his muzzle rattling with his laughs. The Soldier and the Demoman gave him slugs to the shoulder. The ruckus finally drew Miss Pauling out of the guest suite. She squinted for a moment, cleaned her glasses, then squinted again. The Pyro gave her a cheerful greeting, then raised a hand. She lifted hers as well, slightly unsure. The Pyro slapped his hand against hers, giving a loud cheer. The men echoed him, all whooping and hollering. "I'm glad to see you guys are okay, but… I'd like an explanation," Miss Pauling spoke slowly, still bewildered. "Indeed." Everyone fell silent as the Spy shut the door to his room. He hesitated, now realizing that he could be in danger. The rest of his teammates were eyeing him, uncertain about what to make of his reappearance. Well, the five that had been with him through that strange castle would trust him, wouldn't they? That left the three strongest men to deal with. They seemed to be just as wary as he was. Even Miss Pauling was a little put off with him. Perhaps this had been his fault, but there had to be a way to rectify this. The Spy cleared his throat. "I am assuming zat you have destroyed it, have you not?" "Destroyed what, Frenchie?" the Soldier asked. "Ze knife, of course," the Spy clarified. Miss Pauling tapped the Spy on the shoulder. She flinched as he turned around, but regained her composure. "The men locked it up, for now." The Spy shook his head. "Zat will not do. We must destroy it. Make sure zis will not happen again." "I'll go tell Dell ta kick on the smelter," the Sniper volunteered. "Moight be a few minutes before it gets all toasty." Miss Pauling nodded. "Okay. In the meantime, gentlemen, why don't you do…whatever it is you do in the morning?" The team agreed to the new schedule with no fuss. As they broke off to take care of their own needs, Miss Pauling stayed with the Spy for one moment. He was expecting her to hit him, scold him like the Administrator would. She merely gave him a frustrated glare, then returned to her room. Well, she'd turned her back to him. The part he was most used to attacking in other people. Perhaps she did trust him a bit yet. He shrugged it off, settling back into his routine. As soon as he'd gotten notice from the Engineer that the smelter was ready, the team headed downstairs. The Heavy, Soldier, and Demoman took their time undoing the lock. All three shot the Spy a dirty look as he tried to watch them. He gave a small chuckle. Didn't they know he could just pick it if he wanted? Sometimes they could be so ridiculous. As the last part of the lock disengaged, the Demoman swung the safe door open. He gawked at the contents of the safe. The other men were struck speechless as well. The Spy pressed to the front of the group, squatting down next to the Demoman. No, this was—well, perhaps it wasn't impossible, but—he shook his head. He dug into the safe, flinging miniature dunes aside. The Demoman assisted him, both men squatting over a pile of sand. Both of their hands brushed the bottom of the safe, scraping away the last few grains. The knife was nowhere to be found. /***/ Having no discernable resolution to where the knife went, or even what happened to it, the team did the next event in their routine—breakfast. They had a strange efficiency about the meal, most days. Each man would take a turn fixing one thing or another, and cooking would be done in less than fifteen minutes. They would then spend time talking about strategies for the next battle or random news. Today was a little more laid back, even for them. There were still some tensions between the rest of the team and the Spy, but they were beginning to heal. Oddly enough, pancakes, fruit, and coffee tended to smooth little arguments over. "So, den things just went black, and I dunno. Just ended up wakin' up in my bed," the Scout shrugged, finishing his recollection of the events. He tapped the man to his left on the shoulder. "Yo, Pyro! Syrup!" The Heavy frowned. "How very strange." He grabbed a bunch of grapes from the arrangement in the center of the table. Archimedes helped himself as well, although it was questionable whether or not the bird could actually eat his catch. "That's why ya never want ta mess around with weird, magical crap. It'll always bite ya in the arse." The Demoman flicked an orange peel into a trash bin across the table. "Never heard of a genie liven' in a knife, though. Ya think that's really what it was?" The Engineer frowned. As he spoke, he waved the cut pancake on his fork around. "I ain't one fer speculation, but I'm not sure it was livin' in it, per say. Coulda been like some kinda device fer transporten' us to another dimension. Like that strange ol' book that took yer eye." "Sounds like it was a miserable old bastard, too. Thought genies were supposed to be kinda—I don't know. Jollier," the Soldier rambled. He poured himself another cup of coffee, then refilled Miss Pauling's cup. The Sniper shrugged. "Far as jinn go, it's complicated. Some regard them as angels. Others, more like devils. Some grant wishes, some just want ta kill. Depends on the one ya run across, I suppose." "Wait, wait, wait. I got it," the Scout interrupted. "So, it wants to kill humans, right? But it's a lazy bastard. So, it turns itself into a knife, den has the humans kill each other for fun. And den, it torments 'em in the afterlife!" The Spy frowned. "Zat does not explain why it had zat strange transformation ability. Unless you all believe it to merely be magic, of course." "Or zat vierd fire business zat came out of us ven zat jinn showed up," the Medic stated. He bit off a smaller piece of fruit, then passed that to Archimedes. The Scout was quick to jump in. "Say, yeah! Now that you mention it. Like, I thought that was our souls or somethin', but hell, I still feel like I got mine! I mean, I think I do." He scratched his head, "Man, anybody here ever lost one before? Seems like somethin' at least you'd experience, Tavish." The Demoman shook his head. "I don't know why ya'd think I'd know anythin' about that, laddy." The Engineer made an awkward cough. "Well, it was a bein' made 'a fire. And fires need a fuel ta build, so ta speak. So maybe it was put in us when we got stabbed. So it could…grow." The analogy went over the heads of most of the men. Miss Pauling caught on first, almost sneezing coffee out of her nose. The Sniper got it next, a small twitch shaking his shoulders. A guttural snort came from the Medic. He lost his cool, cackling loud enough to scare the doves resting on the Heavy's shoulders. "Are you telling me zat zis zing vas engaging in a parasitical relationship viz us?" "Well, Doc, I don't know! You'd know better than me!" The Engineer flushed red. "All I'm sayin' is that a livin' thing doesn't go around puttin' parts 'a itself in other people unless it—" With the Scout's realization came a flurry of panic. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Was I knocked up with some kinda demon baby?" The Engineer shook his head, waving his hands. "I didn't mean like that! More like cuttin' a plant offa its parent and getting' it ta grow in new soil." "Well, I think I'm done with this conversation." The Soldier stood up. With one swift motion, he marched his plate and utensils to the kitchen. He wasn't fond of washing dishes, but it was preferable to the strange turn of events the conversation had taken. The Demoman agreed. "Ditto." Someone had to dry the dishes, after all. Might as well take his chance to escape while it was made available. It was clear that the Heavy was not comfortable with this topic. The Medic sighed. While he wanted to stay and discuss the nature of the being he'd encountered, he also needed to take measurements on the new offspring. He gave the Heavy a pat on the shoulder. "Suppose ve have vork to do as vell. Let's go see Pavlov und Keldysh." The big Russian smiled from ear to ear, then rushed for the infirmary. The Medic laughed to himself. If only that meat shield could move so fast in combat. "Yeah. Huh. Think I've got stuff ta do as well." The Scout walked away from the table, leaving his dirty dishes in place. "Gotta be somethin' good on TV. Need ta rot my brain out right now." Television always had a grip on the Pyro. He perked up at the Scout's mutterings. He gave a small goodbye buzz to the remaining crew, then picked up the discarded dishes on the table. Maybe he didn't want to be in on the conversation anymore, but that didn't mean he was going to be rude, either. He placed the stack next to the sink, then went to go spend some quality time with the idiot box. "Well, gentlemen, it's been lovely. As always," Miss Pauling sighed. "I've got to go do my time sheets for this." The Sniper nodded. He took her plate and cup, then stacked it on his own. "Roight, then. Think I'll go fetch a shower. Haven't had a proper one yet." He gave the Spy a dirty look and a toothy grin. "Don't know why I keep getting interrupted." The Spy shooed him off. "Yes, well, be gone wiz you, too." It looked like breakfast was more or less done. The Engineer shook his head, then gathered up his utensils. He offered to take the Spy's plate, which the Frenchman gave. The Spy sighed, then produced a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. It was strange to watch the Spy smoke in silence. A strange feeling of pity struck the Engineer. It wasn't like the Spy had asked for all of these horrible things to happen. Not that anyone had given him too bad of a time for what had occurred, but it was clear that he still felt a little guilty. Then another quirky idea crossed his mind. "You know, Spy. You were pretty good with that knife," the Engineer said. The Spy shrugged, brushing the compliment aside. "If you say so." "I mean it. Can't help but think what ya could do with somethin' like that in battle." The Engineer set the stack of dishes down, then approached the Spy again. "Shouldn't be hard ta make, either. Just gotta take that little Spytron 3000 of yers, then apply the tech that makes it run into a knife. Probably will cause some interference, but it might work." The Spy paused for a moment, dragging slowly through the cigarette. A roll of smoke escaped his nose. It had been effective, hadn't it? He'd used that knife to take the Pyro, the Medic, the Sniper, and the Engineer down in succession. No breaks, no detection. Just a smooth course. That could be useful. He was feeling a little burned by it at the moment, but a replica could prove very useful. The smile on his lips already gave away the Spy's approval. /***/ Miss Pauling sighed as she paced through the halls. Her report was getting to be too long. Between all the tapes, the strange data reels, and the general confusion amongst the team, she was writing a novella. Like the Administrator would have the patience to read through all of that, not to mention those two old bastards in their carbon copied mansions. She tapped her pen against her clipboard, a strange taste in her mouth. She’d forgotten to brush her teeth. Well, that wouldn’t do. She placed her clipboard in the guest suite, grabbing her traveling kit. Suppose all of this would go into overtime? A vacation sounded nice. Perhaps she could hop over to California for a couple of days. Not that she had to travel far to get to tequila and a beach, but it would be nice to escape for a little while. She reached for the bathroom door. It pushed aside much easier than she’d expected. What in the—oh. There was a man’s hand next to hers on the doorway. She kept her eyes down, trying not to stare too long at the towel around her subordinate’s waist. An awkward flush overtook Miss Pauling’s expression. The Sniper was equally flustered. He sighed, then entered the bathroom anyway. “Come on in, then. Not like I wasn’t runnin’ about starkers on the tapes.†Miss Pauling hesitated. She gave the camera outside of the restroom a glance. That really was a cruel place to put one. Not that there weren’t ones already in the locker room, but they were in more discreet locations. Maybe she could talk to the Administrator about moving that one. Not like it caught anything anyway, but—well— She sighed. She just wouldn’t report the next fifteen minutes in overtime.
Cripes. Forgot to sign >>48 as myself. I am so horrible at this chan thing. Questions? Comments? Criticisms?
I really enjoyed it. You kept the action up and had the characterizations spot on. A very nice origin story for the Eternal Reward. (Would like to see more of Medic reacting to the new birdy babies) I like how everyone sits down for breakfast and then continue the day like usual. Like everyone is used to impossible shit occurring daily. Me likey mucho. I am utterly charmed by your work.
Mea Culpa, mea maxima culpa! I'd feel bad if it weren't for the fact that I loved the chapter :P The humor was great. Demo throwing garlic at the "sinners," Soldier with helmet and pajamas, Scout's lines (I'm still chucking at "freeze in hell")... And it never felt forced either. Not just in this chapter, but throughout the whole fic the mood switched smoothly between relaxed and funny to serious drama, with no dissonance. The idea of the balls of light as Alien-like offspring is something I never saw coming. Freaky as hell, yet Scout's outburst made it hilarious. How do you come up with such ideas and imagery? I'm jealous, I can only come up with "normal" stuff for my fics >_> And of course, I loved the happy ending. I'm a total sucker for those! The way I see it, a story should only have a sad/bittersweet ending if a)the story is so utterly dark and mind-crushingly depressing that a happy ending would feel like an ass-pull (like, if a story about Auschwitz ended with confetti and kittens and rainbows, I'd feel insulted and be all you've-got-to-be-shitting-me), or b)the fundamental theme of the story naturally leads to tragedy (for example, Corpse Bride was built upon the themes of life and death and having only one choice between two opposite paths, therefore one of the two women necessarily had to get the short end of the stick, it was impossible for both Victoria and Emily to get a happy ending). In every other case, I'm 100% for happy endings, and honestly can't comprehend why some people say that they are inherently inferior to tragic endings. "Tragic endings are artistic because they express human emotions!" Joy and relief aren't human emotions? "Tragic endings are better because they are unexpected!" In children cartoons, sure, but any kind of fiction that's aimed at teens and adults is full of characters deaths and pointless sacrifices, and even when the heroes do ultimately win it's still very common for half the cast to die in the process. If anything I'd say that an action/adventure story where none of the heroes die is completely unexpected. "Tragic endings are the best because they show that the author wasn't afraid of expressing themselves!" Then why is it that some authors believe that they have to give their story a sad/bittersweet ending, even if they don't really want to, because if they don't they feel that the story won't be taken seriously? Seems to me like tragedies are an awful lot like peer pressure. "Happy endings are lame because they are unlikely!" Depends entirely on the circumstances. Again, a happy ending at Auschwitz would suck, but most circumstances aren't nearly that horrible, and anyway most popular and beloved tropes in fiction aren't exactly realistic either (what are the chances that, in the whole wide world, the heroes encounter the same villains wherever they go? What about love at first sight? Finding a long-lost relative/friend? Being the Chosen One?) Sooooo... Tl;dr: I enjoyed your fic a lot. I'd put a huge smiley here but I've run out of allowed emoticons. I was wondering... By any chance, do you take requests? I got a prompt that I'd love to see, and I think your writing style and characterization would suit it perfectly.
Oh, and I forgot to add, I love how you write Miss Pauling as a friend/comrade of the mercenaries. I'm a woman, so naturally I like my entertainment to have women. I guess this is why I'm so utterly convinced that Pyro is female, even though the evidence for their gender is extremely ambiguous and I usually go for cold hard facts: I WANT there to be at least one female character in the Team, so my mind automatically interprets Pyro as such. So, having Miss Pauling act like a sort of "Sixth Ranger" is something I wholeheartedly approve of.
I love the story all the way through, but the ending left me a little....not disappointed, but somewhere in the neighborhood of that word. The Pauling/Sniper (though loved) seemed a little out of place, and I would have liked a bit more of a definitive conclusion to what happened to the knife. Maybe Miss Pauling secretly took it? Maybe it teleported back to the guy who sold it to Spy? Maybe it was destroyed? Point is, I don't know, but I wish I had some idea. The journey was still incredible, even if the hotel didn't have a bellboy, so it's all good, in my eyes.
oh no its over oh no ): oh
Millia--Feel free to e-mail me the idea. No promises, but if it strikes a chord, I'll play. Iz--Yeah, I was kinda just screwing around at the end. Sometimes I write stuff that looks like shipping just for the hell of it.
Seconding the, "Aww, it's over?". In all seriousness, though, I enjoyed the hell out of this fic. I might have enjoyed a little more exposition on the nature of the entity they were dealing with, but I can also understand a reductive approach to stories involving the supernatural, and I loved your take on the team's interaction with each other. Great work.
Thank you. Even if the idea doesn't strike a chord and you don't write anything, I really appreciate your willingness to consider it :) I've just sent the email, but I'm putting a note here just in case the email gets stuck in the spam folder.
Will you write again?