I thought I'd get around to posting the RED Sniper/BLU Spy story I have on fanfiction.net on here. It ain't the best thing in the world, but so far the response on ff.net has been pretty positive, so I thought maybe you guys around here might like it too. - Chapter One: Be polite. Be efficient. Have a plan to kill everyone you meet. The sniper adjusted his sunglasses and squinted through the scope. There was a flash of red in the corner. The sniper caught sight of a BLU Demoman drunkenly teetering along, popping off grenades behind him and occasionally taking swigs from a suspicious brown bottle tucked in his utility belt. Sniper focused on his bobbing head, and the gunshot rang out with a satisfying pow. “Sorry about the other eye, mate,†the sniper muttered, observing his damage through the crosshairs. He raised his head and flicked his hat, about to reload his gun when he heard a faint creak behind him. He jerked his head over his shoulder and, clutching his kukri tightly, surveyed the room. Nothing. He paused a moment and held his breath, listening carefully; nothing. He exhaled and pushed his sunglasses about his nose, relieved that he was alone, but when he went to sheath his kukri he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Instinctively, he grabbed at whatever caused the sensation with quick reflects and grasped onto what felt like a wrist. As soon as he clutched it, the nothingness began to form into a masked man wearing a blue pinstriped suit and a baffled expression, as if he was insulted by the audacity of the sniper to attempt to protect himself. In the hand the sniper clutched was a particularly nifty switchblade, no doubt intended for the sniper’s throat. The spy hastily drew his primary weapon, an ornately engraved handgun, but the sniper jumped up and, still clutching the spy’s wrist tightly, kicked the gun out of the Frenchman’s hand. It conveniently flew out the small window the sniper had been using. “Mon fusil!†the spy cried out. With his free hand, the sniper took advantage of the distraction and yanked the switchblade from the other man’s clutches, closed it (with some difficulty), and shoved it into his back pocket. Drawing his kukri and holding it against the spy’s neck, he growled, “Gimme one good reason, wanker.†“With pleasure,†the spy snarled, tearing open his suit jacket to reveal extensive wiring strapped throughout his chest. “If I die, you die as well.†The sniper inhaled sharply through his nose, but refused to loosen his grip on the knife. “What if I cut those wires off, and then kill you?†he snapped. “The only person capable of properly disconnecting these wires without short-circuiting himself is the BLU Engineer. Try it and you’re fried, bushman.†The sniper wrinkled his nose. “You’re lyin’.†“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Kill me now and you’ll now for sure.†Visibly disgruntled, the sniper removed the kukri from the spy’s neck. The Frenchman cleared his throat haughtily and rubbed the spot where the knife had been pressed against. “It seems that we are at an impasse, mon ennemi,†the spy noted, reaching into a pocket within his suit jacket and removing his cigarette case. “I can’t kill you,†the sniper said, wandering to the entrance of the room as the spy lit up a cigarette. “But I can’t let you go, either.†“Pardon?†the spy replied, looking up as the sniper slammed the door shut and locked it with a key. “Mon dieu! Since when are there doors that can be locked?†“Since the concept of creative license, wanker,†the sniper answered, pocketing the key along with the switchblade. “You are right in one thing. We’re at a bloody impasse. I can’t kill you because you’ll explode. You can’t kill me because you’re a useless piker. Nothing to do but sit here and wait.†The sniper stalked back to his post and picked up his gun. “And you expect me to sit by and watch as you cowardly attack my teammates from afar, not even giving them the decency to know who it was that killed them?†the spy demanded, bitterly taking a drag on his cigarette. The sniper glanced over at the spy and raised his eyebrows. “I do hope you’re joshing me, mate.†“I am not your mate, jar-man,†the spy sneered, crossing his arms. “You and your bottles of piss disgust me.†“Say anything else and you’ll be covered in the bleedin’ stuff, piker,†the sniper responded coldly, squinting the scope of his rifle. “I suppose it is some kind of fetish, covering people with your own body fluids?†the spy mused snidely. “If so, you’d make a lot more money doing pornography. I am afraid your assassin skills are rather lax.†The sniper stood and turned. His expression was difficult to make out past his tinted sunglasses, but the spy was of the assumption that he wasn’t quite pleased. The Australian swiftly grabbed a half-filled jar of warm, yellowish liquid and threateningly held it over his head. The spy recoiled in disgust. The sniper smirked. “What’sa matter? Afraid of a little bit of piss? Don’t want to dirty up your fancy suit, is it?†“I will not apologize for actually being concerned about my appearance,†the spy scoffed, straightening his tie poignantly. “Unlike some people.†The sniper sniffed indignantly and tossed the sloshing Mason jar aside. “Don’t matter what I look like,†he grumbled, turning back to the small window. “Not like anybody’s gonna see me up here, anyway.†The BLU spy leaned against the wooden wall, watching the sniper thoughtfully before sucking on his cigarette again. “That is terribly depressing,†he concluded after a moment’s thought. The sniper ignored him and fired his rifle at a quick blue blur. Several feet down, a BLU scout’s head exploded with a satisfying pop. “That’ll slow you down, ya twitchy hooligan,†sniper growled, a smile spreading on his lips. Behind him he heard the spy mumbling softly. The Australian promptly jerked his neck around, worried that the BLU sneak might have had a hidden radio on him. “Oy!†The sniper snapped. “What’re mumbling about, piker?†“I’m counting.†The BLU spy answered with a snarl, as if it was an obvious answer. “You do realize you have sixteen jars of urine up here with you?†“Why’re you counting my jarate?†“Why do you have sixteen jars of piss?†“I—I asked you first!†The sniper retorted lamely. Their spat was interrupted by a fwoop, a crash, and an explosion that most likely ruptured the very foundation of the already unsteady building. “MAGGOT!†The RED soldier’s booming voice was somehow capable of surpassing even the Engineers’ loudest sentries guns in sheer volume and magnitude. The sniper sheepishly poked his head threw the window. Immediately a bullet from the enemy sniper hit the edge of the window. “Son of a—!†The sniper ducked back down as the spy burst into a fit of pompous laughter. “Stuff it, spook,†the sniper snapped, before peeking his head over the slightest edge of the window. The soldier was staring up at him (or at least it seemed he was; it was impossible to tell how the soldier saw at all with that helmet covering his eyes) with a bitter frown tugging on his face. His rocket launcher, emitting wisps of smoke like the spy’s cigarette, was perched on his shoulder. “I HOPE YOU ACTUALLY PLAN ON KILLING SOME OF THESE BLU-BALLED BASTARDS, PRIVATE, INSTEAD OF PLAYING TEA PARTY WITH YOUR MASON JARS.†Another shot grazed the edge of the window. “I am!†the sniper hissed angrily. “THEN I WANT TO SEE MORE EXPLODING HEADS!†The soldier saluted him, and the teetered off. “Crazy bloody bastard,†the sniper mumbled to himself, scratching his head underneath his hat. “Nearly gave me a right heart attack, there.†“He also blew your cover,†the BLU spy drawled, blowing rings of smoke into the air. He casually stepped aside as an arrow pierced the wall only a few inches away from his shoulder. “Christ!†the sniper exclaimed, gathering up his rifle and pressing up against the wall to the immediate left of the tiny window. Pop. Pop. Pop. Blue grenades began to fly in through the window. They exploded with an ear-ringing crack upon contact with the creaky, yet oddly resilient wooden floor. In their wake they left charcoal black scorch marks. The sniper did not want to know what kind of marks they’d leave on his body… if there would be any of his body left to mark. The sniper drew in a quick breath of air and nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to think. Truth be told, he wasn’t a good planner. He planted himself in a nest and picked off the ants below. He rarely thought ahead, even off the battlefield; hell, if he did, maybe he’d be living in an actual house. “Why don’t you open the door?†the enemy spy suggested, using the same tone he might put on if he was talking to a three-year-old. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you, spook?†The sniper laughed bitterly. A rogue grenade landed near the pile of mason jars. The Australian’s gut clenched as five jars of urine shattered and soaked the floor with their contents. What a waste. “So you’d rather sit in here and get blown up then unlock the door?†The BLU spy somehow managed to keep an unusually calm demeanor as grenades repeatedly detonated around him. Granted, they’d all grown quite used to the ear-splitting noise and rumbling sensation of explosions by now. “If unlocking the door means you get to slip away and kill the rest of my team, then yes. I would rather sit here and get blown up.†The sniper, who kept himself perched in high nests, hovering above battle, didn’t encounter the sound of destruction quite as often. He jumped slightly with every bomb that popped off. “And what exactly would I kill them with?†the spy scoffed, rolling his eyes. “My knife is in your pocket.†The sniper patted his back pocket, almost as if he didn’t believe the spy. “That’s right.†For a moment he nearly considered the enemy spy’s suggestion, but instead of taking the advice the Australian pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose and squinted at the smirking Frenchman. “Then again, I could just take you out now, with me.†The smug expression faded from the spy’s face. “No,†he whispered, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “Why not? I’m gonna die anyway if I stay here,†the sniper told his enemy through gritted teeth as he advanced on the spy. He whipped kukri out. “If I’ve got a chance to take you out, I should take hold of that right now. I’ll make sure to stab you in the back, nice and quick, so you know how it feels, too.†With the sniper’s back turned to the window, he couldn’t possibly have noticed the rocket hurdling through the air, shot by an especially relentless BLU soldier, aimed straight for the spot between his shoulder blades. The spy, however, did. In retrospect, the spy’s next action was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. Well, perhaps second stupidest, if you count the incident with the squid and the underage nun back in Tuscany. Regardless, he wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking when he seized the RED sniper by the shoulders and heaved them both out of danger’s way. The rocket instead crashed through the door, reducing it to splinters and leaving a gaping hole to escape from. The sniper was sprawled against the wall, slumped like an especially gangly marionette doll. He gingerly raised his arm and pushed up his hat, which had fallen down over his face. The spy was gone.
The area was uncharacteristically quiet. It could, of course, be some sort of ploy. The sniper scanned the window on the other side through his scope, curious to see if there was a BLU sniper looking back at him. No one. The RED sniper would have dwelled on the thought longer, perhaps made an effort to check some of the other typical hiding sports, but a hot, nauseating feeling ran up his esophagus. He lowered his gun and put his hand to his chest, then glanced at the empty coffee mug on the ledge. He drank his coffee decaf, which meant he didn't get the jitters, but that didn't stop him from getting god awful heartburn. To be fair, he had drank about six cups without eating anything all day. He considered seeking out the medic to see if he had any Pepto-Bismol, but decided against it. Might not be the most opportune time. He inhaled, making a mental note to pack Rolaids next time. For now, he'd just have to suck it up and bear through it. He picked his rifle back up as a cool breeze came in through the window and tickled his bare head. He went to squint through the scope, but jolted back. His head was bare. He slapped his hand on his head—his hat was gone. The sniper dropped his rifle and spun around to find his hat floating in midair, a mere few inches from his face. In a flurry of curling smoke wisps, the BLU spy materialized before him, wearing both his hat and a particularly unnerving grin. "Boo." The spy let the word slink out of his mouth slowly and deliberately as he savored the look of surprise, and eventual fury on the sniper's face. Immediately the Australian lunged and wrapped his fingers around the spy's throat. The hat flew off and toppled onto the ground. The smile on the spy's face became teeth clenched in struggle. His cigarette stub dropped from his lips and his gloved hands clawed on the sniper's ever-tightening grip. The bit of skin his mask left bare was beginning to turn a frustrating shade of purple. His skinny pinstriped legs twitched and jerked from the strain. His Italian leather shoes scuffed on the floor. The sniper probably could have killed him, right then and there. But he didn't. He had a horrible, fleeting moment of empathy when he looked the spy in the eyes and remembered how he knocked him out of danger's way. The wall still bore the hole from the destruction. He let go of the spy and sheathed his kukri. The Frenchman took a moment to compose himself, gulping in deep breaths of air and massaging his neck. He cleared his throat, and then removed a monogrammed handkerchief from a hidden pocket within his suit jacket. "Why?" he said in a hoarse voice, dabbing his forehead with the cloth. "Why did you stop? Why did you not kill me?" "You saved me from getting hit by the rocket, last time you came up here. I don't have a clue why you did that, but I can't just pretend it never happened. So, I spared your life too. Now we're even." He crossed his arms and stared down out the spy. "That makes a lot of sense," the spy answered, gingerly standing up. "But I wouldn't have done that." "I'm not a sneaky, backstabbing son of a bitch, though, am I?" the sniper scoffed, still watching the spy suspiciously as he dusted off his suit. "I try to maintain a bit of courtesy." The spy raised and eyebrow, and then poignantly glanced at the sniper's stack of urine-filled Mason jars. "Oui. The utmost courtesy." He turned on his heel towards the splintered area that used to be a doorway. "You're leaving?" the sniper said, dropping his arms to his sides. He was almost insulted. "You wanted me to stay?" the spy asked, smirking over his shoulder. "No—I—I'm just—" the sniper stuttered, flustered. "I expected you to try to kill me." "I have better backs to stab, bushman. Je suis desolee." He opened his cigarette case with an expert flip, but rather than pulling out a smoke, he pressed a small button hidden within. In a cloud of the same curling trickery that appeared when he cloaked himself, the spy morphed into the RED medic. The disguised spy straightened himself and yanked at his rubber gloves. "Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Sniper," the faux medic said, in a flawlessly accurate rendition of the real medic's speech. The sniper almost would have believed it was the real doctor, had he not seen the enemy spy transform right there before him. The spy promptly galloped off, no doubt in search of the heavy weapons guy to latch on to. The sniper cringed—the poor bastard wouldn't stand a chance. He stood there for a moment, after the medic doppelganger had left. Certainly he could run and warn someone, shout out to the others that there was a spy disguised as the medic… but he didn't. Instead he picked up his hat, walked back over to the window, and sat down on top of the same crate he had been at before. He went to replace his hat before picking up his rifle, but noticed a strangely uncomfortably sensation. It felt like a tag, but he was quite sure he'd cut the tag off of his hat ages ago. He whipped it off and peered inside to find a small slice of paper tucked within the inside lining. He pinched the corner and slid it out. The words were scrawled in blue ink. The sniper mouthed them silently as he read. What do you think about when you sit all alone in your old gum tree, Kookaburra? The sniper frowned and crumpled the note and tossed it over his shoulder. He had no desire to dwell on cryptic notes from spooks. As he sat in that sniper's nest, though, he couldn't help but notice it drift through his mind every once in awhile. The sniper thought over many things up in his old gum tree. There wasn't much else to do but let your mind wander sometimes, as long as you made sure to keep your main focus on the inane bloodshed down below. He thought about a lot of things, but he had no intention of ever sharing his thoughts with anyone. There was no point in reevaluating his thought process whilst on the job, because he sure as hell wasn't going to bother responding to the spy's childish note. Besides, he'd always been the kind who kept to himself.
I stupidly forgot to point out that the last post was chapter two. Just, well, just bear in mind that each post is a chapter.
>>1 >>2 Why hello MumblingMice! I've been enjoying your story on ff.net! (You might remember my reviews.) On tf2chan I try to give more constructive criticism than on ff.net, I hope you won't mind that. Re-reading these two parts of the story, a few strange things come to mind; Why is Spy wearing a bomb on his chest? I know it's your way of preventing Sniper from killing Spy, but I think that it should have a purpose other than that. Also, couldn't Sniper have pushed Spy out of the window to kill him without setting off the bomb? I find it strange how Spy would have a bomb strapped to himself (or whatever it is) only to visit the Sniper? Why is Sniper not worried about a strange new development like a suicide-bomber Spy? Shouldn't Sniper try to keep Spy a prisoner instead of just letting him be? I also think that Sniper should have seen Spy save him, the invisible savior could just as well have been the Spy from his team, right? (And is respawn active in this story or not?) Just some very minor things that caught my attention. In my opinion not anything too bad, but the sudden non-hostile talking between Spy and Sniper is somewhat sudden. Besides those small things, this is a pretty nice story! Keep it up!
Constructive criticism! Fantastic! This is a point I've been meaning to address in later parts but haven't gotten the chance to; it's not actually a bomb. It's just a bunch of wires he decided to strap to himself as another way of fucking with the enemy. Also, I imagine the window being too small to push someone through.
The sniper shifted uncomfortably on the sagging floral couch. Growing up it had felt just fine, even if it was a little worn in and a bit stained. But now, it felt like he was sitting in doll furniture. He felt too big, too tall, too out of place. On the wall was a cuckoo clock. Its loud, grating ticking always unnerved the sniper. It always seemed much too forward for the quant little living room. On the hour it spat out not a cuckoo bird, but a mustachioed kookaburra. The sniper averted his eyes down to his hat, which he was nervously fiddling with in his hands, suddenly remembering the stupid note from the bloody BLU spook. His mother bustled in, carrying a tray of pink lemonade. She was a stout woman, a good foot or two shorter than her son, with pink cheeks and a generally optimistic disposition. The sniper always had this strange thought that if she was an animal, she'd be a hen, clucking and bustling and picking. She set the tray down on the coffee table and then plopped herself down next to the sniper. She slapped her hands against his cheeks and frowned. "You haven't been eating, have you?" "No, I—I've been eating just fine, mum." "Hmm." She frowned and inspected him in that strange way mothers do, then plucked off his sunglasses. "I don't know why you where those indoors, the lighting's so dim. Your father hasn't gotten around to replacing the light bulbs." She licked her thumb and smoothed his hair. "Such a handsome boy. Always where. If only you took care of yourself. Now, don't be so quiet, pumpkin." She turned away from him and fished out knitting needles and a ball of yarn from somewhere within the depths of the fathomless couch. "How've you been? Have you been sleeping well?" She tsk'd. "You look so gaunt. Have you gotten around to settling down in a nice house, yet?" "I…" Her knitting needles clicked together, gossiping between themselves. "I'm working on that." "Mm." She pursed her lips together. "Best not mention that to your father." "Yeah, where is he?" "In his shed." The sniper exhaled through his nose. His father had a habit of disappearing for hours on end in his shed when his son came to visit. His eyes scanned the wall in front of him, adorned with flowered wallpaper and portraits. There was the school photos from every year—seeing them always made the sniper feel a little jolt in his stomach, terribly embarrassed of his gawky, lopsided, big-eared adolescence. Above them were a few wedding photos, too—the sniper couldn't help but notice that his father looked miserable even at his own wedding. And then… then there was Steve. Pictures of the sniper had stopped soon after his last year of high school, but his brother Steve's entire goddamn life was chronicled on the wall. Steve's first mustache, Steve's wedding, Steve's wombat farm… "When he comes in," his mother said, snapping him back into the conversation. "Try not to mention the J-O-B." "Yeah… yeah, that's probably a good idea." His mother paused, then set down her knitting and rested her plump, warm hand on his knee. "It's not too late to go to med school, Lawrence." The sniper winced. Not only was he grossly unused to hearing his own name, he had been subjected to the "doctor" talk more times than he could possibly count. "I don't want to go to med school, mum," he mumbled, fumbling with his hat again. "'Sides, I know a doctor. He and I make the same amount of cash, I swear it." Her eyes widened. "You're friends with a doctor?" "Well, not really friends, but—" A light bell tinkled from down the hall; someone had opened the door. A pair of boots scrapped against the welcome mat. "Muriel?" The sniper's father was making his way towards the living room. "How's about you put on a pot of tea and—" He stopped at the door frame, his drooping face turning into a low, bitter frown. "You're still here," he observed coldly, crossing his thick arms over his overalled chest. "I should probably be going, actually." The hastily sniper stood up and pulled his sunglasses out from his shirt pocket. "Need to get to the schoolyard early, I suppose? Want to make sure you've got a good spot to shoot at the kids when they go out to play, then?" His father leaned against the doorway, his nose wrinkled. "Oh, dear," sniper's mother groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I don't shoot kids, Dad!" the sniper snapped, crumpling his hat in his fist. "Then stop driving around in that bloody van, because it certainly says otherwise!" "There's nothing wrong with my van!" "Oh, sure. If you want to look like a registered sex offender!" The clock struck on the hour, and the kookaburra popped out, chortling at the sniper's misfortune. The note he had found in his hat came drifting back into his mind. What do you think about when you sit all alone in your old gum tree, Kookaburra? The man drew in a sharp breath and smashed his hat on his head. "Have a good day," he growled, storming out through the screened front door. The bell tinkled cheerfully, like it was trying to brighten his spirits, but hearing it just pissed him off. His van was parked a long ways down the narrow dirt road that stretched out in front of the small house, and he found himself angrily storming away from an uncomfortably long time. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw his mother standing on the porch. She raised her hand to wave, but he turned his head before he noticed. He slapped his hands on the steering wheel of his van. He knew his mother was still watching him but he couldn't bring himself to look back at her. He wriggled his keys out of his pocket and jammed them into the ignition. The old girl took a few turns to start up but once she got going, she was a steady enough drive. He didn't quite care what he looked like, driving his van. It was convenient and it worked. That was all there was to it. He guided the van down along the road, fiddling with the radio. He needed to find something to get his mind off of things. That was one of the problems with his job. For the most part it was good, but it gave you too much time to think. It's not like now, in the van, where he could turn on music and get lost. He had to be all eyes and ears. If that bloody spy really wanted to know what the sniper thought about so badly, he should've come to visit his parents house with him.
>>5 That still does not explain why Sniper isn't worried about the unknown device that Spy has strapped to himself. Sniper doesn't know it's just a bunch of wires does he? I still have to wonder: Does respawn work here, or not? If it does, Sniper could just have tried to kill Spy without the worry of dying for real. If respawn does NOT work, why doesn't Sniper try to get Spy away from him instead of keeping the man with what he thinks is a bomb close to him? Just some things I still don't quite understand. >>6 Not much to say here to be honest. I like the character development in this chapter quite a lot! I do suggest that you alter the beginning slightly. The visit came straight outta nowhere, and quite honestly, apart from that last sentence, could have been an independent Oneshot. What spurred Sniper to visit his parents all of a sudden? It's a minor detail, but it helps in making the story more credible. This chapter is GREAT for character development like I said, but it's character development between Sniper, his parents and his brother! I read upcoming chapters on ff.net, and this visit is barely mentioned, if not at all. It seems out of place with the rest of the story to develop the parents only to never mention them again! The talk is so short, almost as if I fell into a meaningful and emotional talk, only for them to give up right in the middle and finish it off with a few mean insults. From the way you wrote it, I get the feeling you were trying to write the moment where Sniper and his dad REALLY break off any sort of relation, but at the same time it feels as if it has been this way for a long time. I just don't see the usefulness of the talk they had. I suggest that you smooth out the transition between "At the base, fighting" and "At home with parents." Personally this is one of my favourite chapters. Interaction between Sniper and his parents has always appealed to me! Keep it up Mumbly!
There is Respawn, yes. The problem, however, is that when I first started writing this I had it in mind that there wouldn't be. I think the biggest problem is that with the first few chapters I had no idea where I was going. Chapter three was written with purpose of illustrating the sniper's home life, a slice of, you know, the sorts of things that stress him out and occupy his mind and such. I imagine that, even if he doesn't see them often, they're still a large part of his life because he's a relatively solitary person. Doesn't have many connections.
The BLU spy cracked his knuckles. It was an old habit of his, and normally it would be an unfortunate habit for a man who relied on stealth, but he had learned to train himself to do everything quietly. As he looked down at his gloved hands, he noticed one of his cufflinks was missing. Merde, he thought bitterly, rolling his eyes. Of course, the day he decides to wear his favorite cufflinks one of them falls off. Murphy's Law loved him far too much. Perhaps he'd tried searching the area later tonight, after the battle. He could ask the engineer for a metal detector… it would be a pain in the ass, looking for it, but he wasn't the type that felt comfortable shrugging off expensive items. The RED sniper exhaled across the room, then scratched his stubbled cheek. The BLU spy was technically supposed to be trying to sap the sentry out in the courtyard, but he didn't feel like it. The spy liked to think of himself as a sophisticated, scheduled man, but in truth he was quite ornery. Unlike some members of his team, he lacked the fervor to passionately and repeatedly attempt to thwart the enemy. He'd never been one to take sides, nor be loyal too quickly. So instead of sapping the sentry the beeped and whirred and shot three spinning missiles at the slightest hint of blue, he was sitting cross-legged on top of a barrel, high above the thoughtless bloodshed. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he found the Australian so intriguing. He wasn't one to overanalyze these sorts of things. He supposed it was the concept of privacy that the man maintained. The spy was a clever man, and had come to observe that the quiet ones always have the most to say. The sniper exhaled again, and leaned back. The spy couldn't see his eyes past the tinted sunglasses, but the man's brows were knotted in frustration. He scooted away from the window he'd been watching from, and hastily fumbled a crumpled letter out of his pocket. It had been already been ripped open, quite clumsily. The spy cringed—letter openers existed for a reason. He unfolded the note within; a small photograph fluttered to the ground. His curiosity getting the better of him, the spy tiptoed over to get a better view. The photograph was a picture of a brown-haired little girl of about three years old, bearing a piano key grin and holding a bubble wand. The spy cocked his head and blinked down to the letter, standing precariously over the sniper's shoulder. Lawrence, I'm very sorry for the other day. Your father and I feel terrible. You know we love you, pumpkin. It's just hard for us to understand. But, as long as you're happy. Speaking of which, I do hope you've started looking into getting a house like we talked about. Steve has added another acre to his wombat farm. His little Sheila is growing up so fast! I put a picture of her, for you to see. Isn't she such a darling? Kate is a lovely mother. I hope, once you get your home, you think about settling down and finding a nice wife. I know how shy you can be around women, though, pumpkin. Would you like me to set you up with the Wilsons' daughter down the road? She's five or so years younger than you and a bit plump, but very sweet. Write back soon. Love, Mum. The spy had one of those rare moments when he forgot to be quiet by emitting a horselike snort from his nose. The sniper's head snapped up and the letter crumpled in his fist. "Hope that ain't who I think it is," he growled in a low tone. The spy sidled smoothly out of the sniper's reach, slightly disturbed by the man's ability to appear to be looking directly at him, despite his invisibility. "Take that bloody cloak off, ya cowardly piker!" he snapped at the naked air, jumping to his feet and withdrawing his kukri. The spy slinked towards the exit, moving cautiously. "You're a creepy, sick son of a bitch, you know that?" the sniper continued. He was waving the knife, but he was spinning on the spot, unsure of where to address his words. "Sneaking around, but never man enough to do anything—I—I'm a professional, you pansy bastard! I don't need to deal with spooks playing games with me!" A pair of heavy boots began to clomp up the stairs. The spy flattened himself against the wall as the RED demoman bounded past him. "Hullo, lad," the Scotsman slurred pleasantly as he loaded an array of sticky bombs into his launcher. "What're you shoutin' about all alone up here, aye? Havin' a lover's quarrel with the windowsill?" He rubbed his palm under his swollen nose and swayed over to the window, where he began to pop sticky bombs down near the entrance of their base. "Thought I heard a spook." "You want me to send the pyro up here to sweep the place?" The BLU spy recoiled, wrinkling his nose. There was nothing he hated more than the enemy pyro, the soulless shell of a human that lit poor, innocent spies aflame and then cackled like a primate while the flesh of his enemies smoldered. Baiseur. "Nah, it's alright. He's probably gone now." "Probably." The demoman backed up from the window and reached for his trademark bottle of scrumpy. "Oh, aye? Who's this little lass?" He crouched down and picked up the photograph of the little girl. "My niece, Sheila." "I didn't know you had a niece, boy." "I do." "She's mighty cute." He handed the picture back to the sniper. "Thanks mate." He tucked the picture into his shirt pocket. The demoman began to waddle towards the exit. He paused a moment, right where the spy was pressed up against the wall. For a moment, the spy was almost entirely sure that the Scotsman had sensed his presence. But instead, he just pressed his hand to his stomach and let out an impressive, albeit disgusting, belch. The spy wrinkled his nose, revolted by the disgusting explosives expert. Was it really so difficult for Mann Co. to find somewhat civilized human beings to work for them? Either they were stupid and insane or gross and insane or fat and insane or, worst of all, clever and insane. And then there was that sniper. The spy was the kind of person who had always found people interesting. He didn't necessarily like them, but they intrigued him. It helped, being able to observe people the way he did. It made it possible for him to become someone, because he was capable of picking up their habits and dialects and posture. His line of work was half theatre and half psychology. By this point the spy had very little trouble figuring people out. The sniper… the Frenchman couldn't put his finger on it. He couldn't explain it. That's exactly what drew him to the sniper; he couldn't figure him out. The spy decided to leave and get on with sapping the stupid sentry. He didn't particularly want to, but… c'est la vie.