1 . Name: mumbling mice @ 2011-12-30 00:59

Hi everyone! This is my first time posting a story on tf2chan, but some of you may be familiar with some of the stuff I've put on fanfiction.net.

I'm experimenting with the concept of a Lovecraftian deconstruction of tentaspy, and I thought I'd post it on here, get acquainted with you lot.

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“Ye men of science.” His voice was a gravelly tone curling up deep within, rocking on the unsteady waves of a liquor-filled belly. His attentive audience—a gaggle of eight men huddled in blankets around a handful of mismatched candles, a lone campfire in the middle of a technologically spacious setting. Outside, the thunder cackled at their misfortune, pleased with the fact it had knocked the power out and forced them to actually interact with each other. “Ye high and mighty, new-age scientists… ye kin say what ye want, but ye don’ know. Ye don’.”

The flickering candlelight hollowed his high cheek bones, and his single eye slowly rolled up to creep its way across the faces of the other men as they watched him, anticipating the rest of the story. The ones who fancied themselves a bit too clever to believe in spooky stories, like the medic and the engineer, listened politely but didn’t bother investing anything in it. Those who fancied themselves cleverer than everyone else, like the spy, didn’t even bother being at all polite about it. He just took drags from his cigarette and rolled his eyes whenever he felt it appropriate.

Despite the substantial presence of skepticism in the room, they all had to admit that there was something distinctly old world, something mystical and gypsy-like, something undeniably Bela Lugosi about the demoman. One could say it was the thick brogue or the antiquated eye patch, but if you’ve ever sat through a spell and listened to one of his ghost stories, you’d get this horrible realization in your gut that he knew the supernatural better than any old Hungarian actor ever did.

“I cannae tell you of th’ horrors in tha’ book, mates.” His head shook slowly, shrouded by inky shadows. “I don’ even know them meself, and I hope tha’ I never do know them. All I kin tell you is what I’ve seen. What I’ve seen with me own one eye, mind you.” Briefly breaking character, he paused to take a pinch-eyed swing from his trusty bottle of scrumpy, finishing it with a satisfied, shivering “Ah.”

“Go on!” the scout said a little too excitedly. The combination of the demoman’s story, the lack of power, and the intense amount of caffeine he consumed were beginning to take a toll on his nerves. He shivered like a wet dog underneath his coverlet, staring intently at the Scotsman. “I wanna hear the story.”

“I’m getting’ to it, mate, you cannae rush these sorts o’ things.” He wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve and grunted. “Me mum always wanted me to have a steady couple o’ careers. Got me working when I was a wee lad ‘round the age o’ seven, for a bloke o’ the name o’ Merasmus.”

The soldier snorted indignantly, but said no words.

“Young’uns used to tell all sorts o’ stories about him, but the grown-ups wouldn’t say a bloody word. Like he wasn’t even there. We’d mention him and they’d tell us to shut our traps, they would.” He shook his head again. “If only we’d just bloody shut up.”

“So?” The scout urged, scooting towards the demoman.

“So I got meself a little job cleaning up after this bloke. Dunnae ask me how because I don’ remember. But I did. Cleaned out his whole bloody library, I did, using only a rickety broom and m’wee clever brain. Twasn’t shabby work for a seven-year-old, if I do say so m’self.” He chuckled, and then hiccupped. “He had a right number of dusty ol’ tomes. Told me not touch ‘em. But bloody hell if I didn’t get curious as a kitten.”

“Wait…” The sniper squinted at the demoman past a pair of tinted sunglasses, which he still insisted on wearing despite the fact they were in a blackout. “I’m pretty sure you’ve told us this story before, mate.”

“Wha… have I?” The demoman paused in bemusement before taking another swig from his bottle of scrumpy.

“About the fairy tale book and the magical floating eyeball?” the spy remarked condescendingly, wrinkling his nose. “Oui. You have told it six times already, and it gets stupider and stupider each time you tell it.”

“It ain’t a bleedin’ fairy tale, ya fookin’ French dandy!” The demoman smashed the bottle against the floor in a sudden burst of robust Scottish rage. The other men all jumped at the shatteringly glass, but the spy remained still, watching the Scotsman with a raised eyebrow and an expectant smirk. “Ye… ye dunnae know what I’ve seen!” he spat, his one eye bulging as he stuck his finger in the spy’s face. “Ye dunnae know the nightmares!” His bottom lip began to unsteadily tremble. “The nightmares… Oh, bloody hell.” He buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, please.” The spy leaned back in disgust as the demoman began to emit shuddering, wracking sobs. He took another drag from his cigarette, and then flicked it off into the darkness. “You are pathetic.”

The demoman drew in a deep supply of breath, but whatever he was about to respond with was overshadowed by the sudden reemergence of electricity. They all flinched at the long-awaited assault of light that blew up around them, but it was all too welcome.

“Ah, finally!” the scout exclaimed in a voice that was much too loud for three in the morning, jumping up buoyantly. “I’ll see you losers tomorrow on the battlefield,” he called over his shoulder as he high-tailed it out of the room, burning on the fuel of pure caffeine and high fructose corn syrup.

“Now where in tarnation is that boy going that he needs to be in such a hurry for?” the engineer frowned, cracking his back and he gingerly stood up as they all began to disperse in the directions of their designated rooms.

“Prob’ly fixing to have himself a wank, no doubt.” The sniper chuckled at his own crude joke.

The engineer grunted in response, never being much for humor of that nature, then paused with scrunched eyebrows, a sudden thought hitting him much later than it should have. At that moment it occurred to him that the sniper hadn’t even needed to huddle with them in the dark—he had his van, he didn’t even board in the base. And then another thought hit him—why hadn’t the rascal offered up his van as a refuge during this time?

A peal of thunder ripped through the sky, and the engineer answered his own question.

His head feeling heavy from the lack of sleep, he went to go off to his room, but couldn’t help but stop when he realized the demoman was still sitting on the ground, his head between his knees. He was quiet now, but there was still an obvious air of disturbance. The engineer figured it was the booze, and sighed, knowing full well that he’d have to play the adult once again; everyone else had already left.

“Hey, hoss?” The Texan wandered back over to the Scot. “Everyone’s headin’ off to bed now. It’s best that you do the same, huh?”

The demoman swallowed and nodded. “Aye,” he grumbled, raising his head. “Aye.”

The engineer offered his arm, which the demoman clung on to tightly as they carefully tiptoed their way to the explosive technician’s room, walking as if on tightrope. They were lucky it was one of the closer rooms, and the engineer was lucky that he room was just two doors down from it, the heavy’s being in the middle.

“You gonna be alright, pardner?” The engineer crossed his arms and watched the demoman as he began to drunkenly claw off his boots with the speed of a sedated bear.

“Aye,” the demoman repeated, sighing heavily as he finally yanked off one of his shoe. He dropped it on the floor with a sad thud. “Jus’ hope the drinks enough to wash away the nightmares. If I’m lucky I’ll jus’ have no dreams at all.”

The engineer shifted uncomfortably on the spot. He’d tried to talk to the Scot about his drinking before, but he was no professional. He solved practical problems, not head stuff. That was the medic’s forte, and unfortunately, the medic didn’t care very much what went on in the heads of anything unless it was for satisfying his own morbid pleasures.

“Have a good sleep, pardner,” the engineer bid the demoman, softly closing the door behind him as he went.

The demoman toppled back into his bed, not bothering to undress any further or even pull the sheets over himself. What was the point of getting comfortable for sleep if it was just going to tear you apart inside anyway?

Slept crept over him like a greedy beast, extending its tentacles in through his ears and wrapping themselves tight around his brain, caressing it with suction cups like nettles.

The drink just wouldn’t be enough to keep it away this time.