What is this? I don't even. I'm not popular enough to have one of these. But we octopi are shameless creatures, so I'll give it a go. Starting off with a little suspense plot-bunny, "Silence". I always wondered what would happen if that fatal shot wasn't exactly as fatal as planned.
"Silence" -- The RED Scout spun around and swung, but BLU was gone. Just as he realized what was about to happen, it already had. CRACK! He head snapped back as metal collided with the back of his neck, and suddenly he was down. Every muscle in his legs, his arms, his body, let go. He fell flat and slid across the concrete, where every little chip, crack, and miniscule hole felt ten times more painful as it all raked across his face. Then he was completely still. RED didn't understand what the hell had just happened. He was supposed to land on his feet and swing back around on that two-timing jackass. Why hadn't he!? And why the hell couldn't he get up!? Why couldn't he move his face!? Why couldn't he move his eyes!? From what little he could see with his face smashed against the ground, RED saw the black running shoes pull up next to his head. All RED could think was Oh, fuck, oh, Christ, before BLU kicked him square in the shoulder. AAUGH! OW! Fuck, fuck, fuckin', fuck, OW, goddamn it, sonuva whore! What the hell!? He didn't even manage a grunt. BLU rolled him over onto his back with that same foot. His eyes were still full of hate for his enemy, but they were more confused. He knew he hadn't killed RED, but he wasn't getting up. RED tried to look the other Scout in the eyes. He tried, he tried, he used every ounce of willpower he had. He screamed at every muscle in his body to move, to twitch, to do something, goddamn it, move— "Seriously, dude? You tryin'a play dead? Seriously? I can see ya breathin', ya moron!" Another kick, to his side this time. RED's mind ground up and yelled again, but still his body remained completely quiet, completely limp. "Whats'a matter, ya frickin' stupid? I said get the hell up!" Then BLU lifted up his foot, and RED was forced to witness it in slow motion. Oh, no, no, hell– fuck no—! CRUNCH. RED screamed. No, he tried to scream, and he swore he was for a minute because his own thoughts were so fucking loud coupled with the pain. His nose was broken, and warm blood was already sliding down his cheeks, some drops pooling in his ears before trickling into the concrete. BLU found himself getting irritated. "Okay, what the hell." Through the throbbing pain starting in his face, RED suddenly felt an icicle of fear plunge through his chest as the grave reality of the situation dawned on him. He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. He was... what'd Medic called it.... paralyzed. Something warm dripped from the corner of his mouth, and Scout's pride could only prey that it was blood. "Holy shit, are you droolin'?" Guess not. That seemed to be the spark that set off the lightbulb in BLU's head. "You... you can't move, can ya...?" The RED Scout may have been impulsive, but he wasn't stupid. Oh God, please, dude, c'mon, c'mon, do something. Help a brotha out, man, please! A dark, sadistic smile crept over BLU's face. "No shit..." The fight at Well was taking place over on RED's side of the field, and they were in BLU's building. There was no one else in sight. BLU dropped his bat and grabbed RED by the shirt, dragging him across the floor like a sack of potatoes. RED wheezed, chest heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe. The way his head lolled forward closed his nasal passage naturally, and his mouth had clicked shut, leaving his only airway constricted and blocked by slightly-parted lips and teeth. RED panicked, which only made his breath speed up. The floor was suddenly smooth, covered in tiles and frigid. The dragging was easier on BLU, but only made things more frightening for RED. What the hell're you doin' with me, Blu-fag! Where you pullin' me! Holy fuck, air, air, air—air! Breathe, oh god that's good, fuck, where the hell are we goin'? Put me down, put me go, let me go, lemme go lemme go lemme go– just fuckin' kill me already just do it no he ain't gonna kill me that'd be too easy it's an opportunity I wouldn't kill me if I was him I'd shuck'im away like oh god oh God Jesus Christ he wouldn't he wouldn't he wouldn't he would oh god he's gonna throw me in a closet an' lock the door shoved in a school locker like a nerd oh fuck oh shit oh FUCK OH SHIT NO NO NO BLU tossed him against a cold wall in a small room full of computers and hi-tech looking devices. RED's body lolled, then slid onto it's side. BLU flipped him so that he faced away from the door and moved his head so he could breathe easily. "Nobody's allowed in these rooms, y'know," BLU said, still wearing that horrifying smile. RED's face just stared off, unmoving. "I wanna say nothin' personal... but who the hell am I kiddin', right?" RED's nose had just started to crust over until BLU stomped on it one more time. Then, he reached down and turned off RED's headset. "I really wonder how long it'll take before ya team starts lookin'. If they even wanna find you." RED's face was on fire. He could hardly think though it. And just as the throbbing began to wane, he heard the door shut and click. And everything was still. Scout's heart was pounding against his chest like a prisoner, desperate to escape. It wasn't so different from his mind. Scout was trapped in his own body, hidden away in the enemy base in a room that was off-limits and almost always locked anyway. At least, that what it was like on his own side of the field; Scout assumed that everything in their bases was mirrored. Even if, by some one-in-a-million stroke of luck, one of his teammates happened to wander in, they wouldn't see him breathing because his body was facing away from the door. They'd think he was dead, and wouldn't bother. His headset was off, which meant he couldn't even send out a breathy SOS on the off-chance anyone called for him. And no one would think it was strange, because Scout forgot to change the batteries on the thing almost all the time. It was sometimes off for weeks on end. And, to top it all off, BLU had opened his airways. BLU wasn't going to let him choke his way out of it; he wanted RED to suffer in here as long as he possibly could. Scout had eaten a huge breakfast and a huge lunch, on top of all that; starvation wouldn't kick in for days. Christ, oh Christ, oh god... someone, help me... please... Two beads of tears rolled down his emotionless face, and mixed with the pool of blood and saliva. He was trapped.
Did this one for my sister. She gave me a quote for Sniper to say and told be to have at it. ---- Sniper: "Doesn't make much sense, when you get right down to it." Indeed. -- TeuFort was seldom peaceful, even during ceasefire. When the farm animals weren't awake and raising a stint, the Engineers were busy together modifying their blueprints, the Scouts were playing some one-on-one variation of baseball, and there was often a good deal of poker being played in one base or another. Upon the rooftops of the RED Battlements, stolen away from all the usual post-sunset hullabaloo, The RED Sniper and the BLU Spy lay side-by-side, relaxing under the cool evening sky, just chatting. It was not an unusual thing to see; despite all the propaganda, all the blind hatred each team was meant to feel towards the opposite, towards the 'enemy', no one sincerely hated anyone. The Administrator had only found out about the RED Demoman and the BLU Soldier because it had been the first public display of friendship between any of them. Both teams had learned from their mistake, and kept their friendly interactions narrowed to whenever their Administrator could not observe. Ceasefire was one of those times, and so there they were, laughing like the best of friends. "A'roight, there was this one toime," Sniper said, gesturing with his beer bottle. "I was at a bar with a couple of me best mates. We'd meet up together every few weeks or so to swap stories, roight? So I head up, grab a couple beers, an' when I come back my seat's gone. This guy at a nearby table apparently took it for himself, didn't bother askin'. I hand off the beers, tap the bloke on the shoulder, ask him if I could please have me seat back. He brushes me off an' turns back to his mates. I'm thinkin', not the best start, so I try again. He scoffs at me an' stands up. He's not giving back the seat though. Damnit, he's gotta be about the size'a Heavy in muscle, and he's got a whole broom under his nose." Spy chuckled at the image; Sniper standing before some brutish, burly Australian, the epitome of everything Sniper knew he wasn't. The Frenchman took a shallow swig from his wine glass. Sniper continued, "I'm bailed up, an' I can smell the drink on him, but I got a plan. When he tells me to bugger off, I politely imply that his dad's a dropkick. Well, hell if he gets–" "Quoi?" Spy raised an eyebrow. "You called 'is fazzer a what?" Sniper furrowed his brows, then understanding hit him. He sometimes forgot when he was using vernacular exclusive to his home country. "I basically called his dad a dumbass." "Ah. Go on." A baseball slammed against the RED Battlement's sheet-metal. One of their Scouts shouted something at the other, anger mixed with utter delight. The other shouted some muffled apology at the two upon seeing them. The apology was well-recieved, and the two young men returned to their dodge-ball rough housing. "Roight. So, he gets all red-eyed, but," Sniper held up a finger around his bottle. "I'm the sober one. He made to swing at me, but the bloke's bloody drunk; he can't hardly swing for the life of him. "So what I do is," Sniper demonstrated the motion as he described it, "I swoop down, palm bared, swing up as he comes forward to strike, an' ram him roight on the tip of his nose." Spy's brows flew up, and he smiled. "Really! You planted ze cartilage in 'is brain, did you?" "More'r less, yeah." Sniper nodded, and took a swig. "I think he doied. Can't quite remember. Could'a just been brain damage, for all I know." Spy smirked, snickered. "Even zen, in front of an entire pub, you did not care. Honhon! 'Ow marvelous, Tireur isolé." Sniper rolled his eyes, albeit smiling. Only Spy was allowed to address him as such. And since it was only them, Sniper felt no inhibitions in playing along. "Dans un pub, dans le secret ... la mort est la mort," Sniper took another drink. "Nous savons tous." It only partially hurt Spy's ears to hear Sniper speak in his own tongue. The man was fairly fluent, which Spy loved and was grateful for, but Sniper's accent was terrible. That Sniper even indulged him, however, meant so much Spy in an almost unmanly way. "Alors..." Sniper continued, "Toi?" "Moi?" Spy gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful night. "Je n'ai pas fait beaucoup de peine d'en parler." "C'mon Spy. I know yeh got something. Yeh've always got something." The BLU rolled his wine glass between his fingers, admiring the gleam of moonlight as it bounced through the glass. "I'm afraid not. My travels 'ave been limited as of late. Ze most I 'ave been able to manage is a brief trip 'ome. I revisited a few old lovers, and acquired a few fresh ones." Sniper was fascinated with how Spy talked about women the way Sniper might about guns, or Scout about baseball cards, or Medic about his surgical instruments (although Medic often spoke of his instruments as if they were lovers, so...). Sniper didn't fault him for it, but it did strike him as strange. "Oh, Spy, that reminds me. I asked our own about this after hearing about how he shagged Scout's mum, but he never did answer me straight." Spy took a long drag from his cigarette. Delicious nicotine, it was. "Allez-y." "Do yeh two... do Spoies, I mean... do yeh ever take off yer..." he gestured to his face. "Yer, ah... yer doovalacky..." "My balaclava?" "Yeah, yeah. Do yeh ever take that thing off?" "I do, but only when it must be washed, in which case I have many more to chose from." "But our Spy wore it whoile shaggin' Scout's mum. Yeh don't even take it off for that?" "Mais, non. I cannot let anyone know my true identity. Not even my closest lovers have seen beneath my balaclava." "Don't it get in the way, though? Or at least a bit hot? I mean, why worry about some sheila knowin' what you look loike when yer shaggin' her brains out?" Sniper took another sip. "Doesn't make much sense, when you get right down to it." Spy shook his head, smirking. "Per'aps one day, when you find yourself running from ze government, you will see." "'When,'" Sniper chuckled. "Roight." A bang shook the sheeted metal around them, followed by some rather loud barking downstairs. Sniper and Spy smiled. "Sounds like your Soldier lost another hand to our Demoman," The bushman mused. "'E is a 'orrible at poker. I do not know why he always insists on playing." "W'll, because it's fun," Sniper said. "I mean, take Scoot and Scooter down there. They'd both play their baseball game even if they kept loosin', just because they both have fun rough housin'. I'd bet yeh my croc skins that Soldier an' Demo actually enjoy yellin' themselves hoarse at each other. It's just another way to hang out, for them." Spy rolled his eyes and sipped his wine, smirking. "It makes sense, at least." The same baseball from before zoomed at Sniper's head, but the man caught it in the nick of time. "The Hell!?" "Sorry, Snipes!" The RED Scout shouted, and had the decency to look it. "Eh, no worries!" The bushman shouted, and lobbed the ball back down. To Spy's surprise, it bonked RED right on the forehead and knocked him flat. BLU burst out laughing, and Sniper started laughing with him. "Was zat intentional?" "Was what intentional?" "Zat!" "I dunno what yer talkin' about, Spy."
I like your stories :)
This post has been deleted.
This it the end bit for a fic I posted a while ago, "Face to Face". It's buried in the directory somewhere. Read that before reading this if you want any sense to be made. I was gonna end it with this suspenseful fight, and I suppose I still technically could, but... I just kinda lost the drive for it. I can't write action scenes anyway. For those four of you that critiqued the first part, thank you very much. Hope you can enjoy this. -- Sniper jerked his free arm back, elbow striking something soft. The invisible Spy shouted, clutching his throat and coughing. Sniper shoved him back and dove for the kukri and his Jarate – the fallen jar. He swung the glass full-force over the RED Spy's shoulder (He was aiming for the head, of course, but the Spy was invisible. How accurate could one be?), slicing the fabric and bathing the Frenchman in foul piss. His Cloak and Dagger fizzled dead, revealing its surprised and disgusted owner. Sniper lunged at him, slamming the RED Spy against the wooden wall hard as the bushman grabbed a fistful of the Spy's collar and tie. He pressed his blade to the his adams apple firmly just as he felt the barrel of a gun jab up under his chin. For one deadly second, all they heard was the other's heavy breathing and the faint war raging a hundred feet below. "Bloody spook." "Filthy bushman." ... ... Sniper looked his long-time rival over. One gloved hand clutched the Spy's venomous-looking Ambassador (How dare Mann Co. give an accuracy-tuned revolver to a Spy! Of all the fucking classes! Why couldn't Sniper have a sniping handgun? He was the fucking Sniper, wasn't he!?), and the other hand had a steady grip on Sniper's collar. Spy was certainly not in an advantageous position, and yet the Frenchman looked humored, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen, exactly how he was going to win this little feud, and that Sniper was being rather foolish if he even thought he had a chance. The RED Spy always looked that way, and It pissed Sniper off something fierce. "Well, mon vieux ami?" Sniper growled, "Well, what." "We appear to be at an impasse of sorts. 'Ow would you propose we proceed?" "Hows' about I peel the flesh off yer cheekbones an' rub a li'le salt in? That sound like a noice li'le solution t'yer 'impasse'?" Spy just laughed. "Tsk tsk tsk. So carnivorous and barbaric, tireur isolé. Where iz ze tact? Where iz ze finesse?" Sniper jostled him sharply, trying to pull the focus back on the two deadly weapons between them. "Gimme one good reason not to carve you a new cake-hole, spook. One." Spy smiled, flashing Sniper the twisted Cheshire grin of a predator. Sniper wanted to believe it was prey that thought it was the predator. Spy was not the dominant one here. He blinked, and in that bare moment he swore there were fangs in that grin. The bushman realized that there was no way he could convince his subconscious that the Spy was pure prey. Fuckin'... Spy. "One good reason?" Spy drawled. He leaned in closer, as close as Sniper's blade would allow, and murmured, "Je suis venu pour s'amuser un peu, tireur d'élite." Sniper leered. He really didn't like the French language, far too many strange dips, twists, and sounds for him to sort through. Understanding it was like trying to pluck free a knot of impossibly tangled rubber bands; it was bloody excruciating and it always took longer than it ought to, but he knew it could be done. How perfect was it that his mortal enemy happened to be French. As he translated the sentence in his mind, a brow slowly crawled up his forehead. "For fun? The blazes're you talkin' about, Spoi?" "Monsieur Sniper, my dear friend," Spy began, "we 'ave been nemeses ever since our first battle in TeuFort, so much so zat our contractors 'ave allowed us each to bring tools and weapons of our own, specifically wiz ze ozzer in mind, onto ze battlefield. It 'as been razzer effective, and, well... I am sure I do not need to explain to you 'ow much we 'ave boz enjoyed dominating each ozzer, oui? "'Owever, time 'as flown by, and I feel zat our confrontations 'ave, as of late, become razzer... ah, what iz ze word... repetitive?" This observation caught Sniper's attention rather pointedly. Why? "What's that got to do with this roight now, spook?" "You saw my 'andiwork on ze battlefield, chasseur, non? I watched your little dot buzzing all around for me." The RED Spy's voice dropped lower, and a mischievous smirk crossed his lips. "Mais vous ne pourriez pas me trouver, pourriez-vous?" Sniper knew exactly what he'd said that time. The words pierced a nice little hole through his pride as a Sniper. That, he did not take kindly to. "How did you kill my team!?" Sniper demanded, determined not to show Spy any hint of weakness. "A Spoi's cloak don't let'im attack!" Spy couldn't throw his head back, seeing as he was against a wall, so he made due with laughing his head off in the BLU Sniper's face. Oh, and did it sear. Sniper ground his teeth, his arm and hand itching with that twitchy, maddening need to jerk his knife. It would be so easy, too. Just a quick little jerk; a flinch in the muscles, even. Clench, skink, drip drip drip. No serious thought was even needed. The hunter in Sniper wanted to laugh right back at Spy and slice that fat column of meat open, watch the red floodgates pool all over that not-quite-as-red suit. He internally chuckled, dark and demonic. 'Aw, did I get blood on your suit, mate? Blimey, sorry 'bout that. Real accident, that was. Best get it to the cleaners. You want me to pay? You sure, mate? I'd hate to see the red stain all that RED, y'know. Whats'at? Feelin' a li'le dizzy, you say? You oughta lie down. Oh no, that's alroight. Here, lemme help you. You say you're feelin' a bit light-headed? Heh, well, blimey, you are lookin' a bit pale. You want some Asprin or whatnot? Heh, you sure? Well, suit yourself then. Hehehe...' The only thing holding him back was the need to know. "Monsieur, surely you did not really zink zat zere was somezzing physically preventing us Spies from killing beneaz ze cloak, did you? But of course not. While zere are some zings that cannot be done, ze rest is mere... regulation. I am not allowed to kill ze Engineer, or sap 'is toys, while I am cloaked. But, zere is nozzing stopping me." Sniper blinked. "You expect me to believe that load'a rubbish?" "Ho-hon! Zat would be ze day, oui? 'Owever, it does not matter. I 'ave a proposition, a game for you, mon ami." "I don't play games, mate." Sniper sneered and pressed the blade against his windpipe. When Spy's smile melted into something more pained and fearful, Sniper's lips pulled into its own malicious grin. Nothing patched up your pride quite like making a Spy nervous. "Neizzer do I, tireur isolé," The RED managed, his minute fear hastily replaced with a mask of self-control. "I pose to you a challenge." Sniper paused, unconsciously easing up a bit. Well, when he phrased it that way... "A 'challenge,' spook...?" Spy mentally cackled in triumph; his hunch had been spot-on. "A bushman's fight, one could say. No guns, no weapons, no tricks, no cloaks. A fight unlike any ozzer." Sniper cocked an eyebrow. "No tricks? You? Hah! That will be the day." "Ah, but you 'ave my word on zis, mon ami." "Don't even try that gimmick with me, Spoi! Dead Ringers, disguises, sappers, knives in the back; lies an' tricks're all a Spoi's got. It's what make you a Spoi." "Indeed. And a Sniper is 'ardly a Sniper wizzout 'is gun, 'is blade, 'is... eugh, 'is Jarate..." Spy cocked an eyebrow back at Sniper. "But, zat is why I 'ave come to you wiz zis, bushman. It 'as always been played zis way; ze Spy versus ze Sniper, 'as it not?" Sniper vs. Spy, he defiantly corrected, but said nothing. "Surely you understand, Sniper, if not as a mercenary, zen as an 'unter. 'Ave you never grown tired of killing ze same animals day after day? Is zat not why you travel? Because you zirst for somezzing more?" The bushman didn't immediately answer. His ferocity towards the oily espionage artist, against his will, began to wane. As disgusted as Sniper was to admit it, Spy was right. Even in his fear of Spies, each backstab felt like another bump on a broken record. Spy's bloody balisong always did the same goddamned thing; Sniper's fear came from the anticipation. Repetition was killing him, in every sense. It dawned on him that this was what he wanted from Spy; a real fight. Even if he was the runt of the Australian litter physically, the blood of a true Bushman coursed through his veins. A regular scruff in the dirt for him was almost as necessary as the occasional roll in the hay (and they sometimes felt similar enough that he could snuff one out with the other), and even if it weren't, how could Sniper turn away an opportunity to punch Spy's teeth out? Honestly,— The outcome was never really in doubt. —how could Sniper refuse? Spy's thin lips curled into another victorious smile. Sniper's silence spoke him. "What say you, mon chasseur?" "Drop yer gun an' I'll drop moi knife."
Nice story :D I always wondered what was stopping them from staying cloaked Inspired by this? http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/135/e/c/ec8d17b6a55d59718a5ed963dd7d79e8.jpg
>>7 Actually, the idea came first. But then I found that picture and it was what convinced me to actually start writing the story down. So yes, you could say so.
Sniper would, and you all know it. "Kitchen Duty" -- Spy's eyes flicked over the chess board, scrutinizing every piece's position, every possible move, and every possible outcome. Soldier's eyes were likely doing the same thing, but who could say with that helmet covering his face? Eventually, Spy settled on his Rook, which glided to rest on the other side of the field in direct view of Soldier's King. "Check." "Hmm," Soldier grunted, a slight grimace tugging at his lips. His thumb and index finger scratched his chin in thought. Then, he took the Rook with his Queen. Scout, who was sitting backwards in a chair and watching the game over crossed arms, narrowed his eyes and smirked. "Bad move, man." Spy summoned his own Queen, hidden amongst the jumble of other pieces, and slid her straight through the fray to take Soldier's Queen out. "Check mate," Spy stated. Scout started chuckling, eyes darting back and forth between the offending Queen and Soldier's unreadable face, waiting for a reaction. To his surprise, after a moment of searching, Soldier smirked with a 'Hmph!' and went to shake Spy's hand. "Well played, crescent-roll." Scout watched as the two men stood, his mouth hanging open slightly. Spy offered to reset the board for another game, but Soldier was forced to decline, saying that he and Shovel had to practice some new battle strategy together. After Soldier left the Rec room, Scout raised as eyebrow at Spy. "Since when is Soldier so calm about losing? Or did I jus' miss som'n?" Spy straightened his collars and adjusted his tie. "Since when are you interested in watching chess matches? Or did I miss somezzing?" "Hey, you got a better idea, man? This place is dead. I'm bored shitless," He muttered, and let his arms hang loose over the chair's back to reinforce his point. Spy snorted and got to resetting the board. A soft pair of footsteps came down the stairs and around the corner. Scout looked up in time to see the familiar gas mask wearing a fuzzy yellow robe, fuzzy yellow slippers, smelling of cheap soap, and holding a thin, rectangular booklet wrapped in plastic. Scout shot up so quickly that Spy actually jumped back, flinging pieces everywhere. "Dude! Dude, Pyro!" Scout ran to Pyro and grabbed the booklet. "Is'at the new Superman comic?! Oh, Hell yes!" Pyro shouted at the sudden assault and swatted Scout away, though God knew Pyro was just as excited. He expressed as much by hopping up and down with the comic clutched tight in his unclothed fingers and shouting incoherently. Spy managed to regain his composure in time to see both men shouting and hopping up and down in sheer joy. Spy could only find the mind to scoff at them and gather up the pieces he'd dropped. The two rushed off to the couch and jumped on with a force that made the old furniture piece audibly rebound. They didn't care, and scuttled close together to carefully remove the plastic protective cover. The sudden switch to calm delicacy was almost comical; they handled the comic book with a gentleness and reverence that, in Spy's opinion, ought to be reserved for a woman's skin and nothing else. Nonetheless, Spy did his best to ignore them and finally finished setting the board up. At last he could get away from the cinematic, childish narrative Scout and Pyro had begun reading aloud. As Spy disappeared up the stairs, Sniper appeared in his place. "Everythin' alroight down 'ere? Thought I 'eard someone fall." Scout didn't hear him, but Pyro looked up and flashed a quick thumps-up before turning right back to the book. Sniper raised an eyebrow and tilted his hat up with his thumb. Curious, he sauntered over behind the couch to see what had caught their attention so pointedly. Soon both brows were high on his forehead. "Is'at Superman?" "Hell yeah it is!" Scout was grinning like a dope. "Hot off the presses!" Sniper nodded, politely returning the smile. "Alroight, cool. I'll leave you to it, then." As he made to depart, Scout suddenly called back to him. "Oh, Snipes! Engie told me t'remind you that, ah..." His face knotted up in thought and he snapped his fingers. "Ah... Shit, what'd he tell me—? Oh! Yeah, KP. You got KP tonight, Snipes." "Ah, piss, I do, don't I?" He had a sour smile on his lips as he checked his watch. "Ooh, I may not be able to— well... no, yeah, yeah, I could make it. Cut'n it close, though..." Sniper turned on a heel and make for the East garage. "'Ey, where th'hell you goin' Snipes!? You gotta make dinner!" "I know, and I will. If anyone asks, then I should be back around... oh, five-ish? Maybe four-thirty if it's a good run." With that, the bushman was gone. Scout's eyes lingered on where he'd been only moments ago, then just shrugged and got back to Superman. Time passed and various teammates stopped by the Rec room while Scout remained. Heavy had come by to get a bit of reading done in peace, but after about ten minutes Scout started making fun of how stupid he looked in reading glasses, so Heavy left. Medic and Engineer had passed through, both eccentrically discussing some topic Scout could only assume had something to do with Engie's robo-hand. Spy had apparently convinced Demoman to play him, but Scout didn't feel like watching them play. Pyro had stopped back in around Star-Trek time, wearing baggy jeans and a thick sweater. They'd both curled up at the foot of the old TV like a couple of little kids. Then five o'clock rolled around, and the show ended. Scout cut off the screen. "Man, now those fur-ball thingies are gonna give me nightmares." "Nrrtmrrs? R thrrt thrr wrr cyrrt!" "Cute!? Ew, man! Ain't nothin' cute about those little freaks." Scout shuddered. "Them things screech. Not cool." Demoman took one of Spy's Knights. The low rumble of an engine pulled up outside, and Scout groaned. "Finally! It's about goddamned time he got back from the market, I'm starving!" The rumbling died. There was a long silence before the back door opened and heavy, wet boots slapped across the floor, approaching the Rec room. Scout thought that the wet slapping was odd as it wasn't storming outside, but whatever, he was hungry. "Yo, Snipes, you better've bought som'n good 'cuz I ain't eatin' no more'a that vegee-mite crap you force–" Scout's words fell right out of his head when he looked up and saw Sniper strolling right through the Rec room towards the kitchen. The man was soaking wet from head to toe, clothes ragged and torn up here and there, smeared with dirt, and had quite a few deep wounds all along his arms and knees that were glistening with fresh blood. Of course, Scout only noticed all of this after seeing the massive crocodile corpse slung over his shoulder, toothy jaws hanging open and tail dragging on the floor behind him. Scout's face was that of total disbelief. Sniper took a deep, fresh breath, pushed his soggy hat up a bit and checked his watch. "Supper should be ready is about... oh... what, seven, seven-thirty?" Smiling, he walked right past Scout into the kitchen. The Bostonian gaped for five solid seconds before looking desperately over at Pyro, then Spy, then Demo. "Did-did you-did you see—!? Did he just— was that a—!?" Pyro shrugged. Spy leered at Sniper and shook his head with disgust. Demoman just laughed at Scout. "Ooh, lad, oh yer fehce! I's not th' first tuime he's done this, y'knoow. Have ye never seen him bring home th' behcon?" "Nu-uh, man! Bacon's all stripped an' greasy an' junk! That shit ain't no bacon!" Demoman laughed even harder. "That is the last time I'm ever touchin' Sniper's food! Last time!!" Scout left the Rec room slightly green in the face. Demoman still couldn't quell his hysteria, and it was starting to annoy Spy because Demo hadn't made his move yet. Pyro shrugged again. If Scout wasn't going to have Croco-steak anymore, then that just meant Pyro got more.
Hell I'd try it. Nice story
Croc is actually pretty tasty. I can definitely imagine Scout as one of those kids who would stop eating something if he knew what it was/where it came from/had veggies in it. In short, nicely done. Made me laugh!
>>3 Oh, you used the word doovalacky You are my hero forever Captcha = wothoh Wot ho, sticky? Jolly hockey sticks! Bangers and mash, toad in the hole, wot, wot, jolly good.
>>13 Heh, I was wondering if anyone would catch that. Much appreciated, anonny-mousse! Aaaand... now I have to make someone say "Wot-ho." -Oh, and if anyone else has anything they've always wanted someone to say, post it! I may just make something with it!-
The more I read of your stuff Lightnings, the more I want to just hug your slippery tentacles close and make you write TF2 forver and ever. And the image of Sniper holding a dead croc over his shoulders is something that will not leave me alone....You should probably expect fanart. Cough.
>>15 Fanart? For me? Name your price, chai! And seriously, I want to write more now. I want to write so much more right now and it hurts because I have so much more shit to do and so much less time to do it in and it scares the hell outta me something fierce. But I will write more! I will do it! Thank you chai!
>>14 I'm all for you using "tushy" in a way that sounds completely serious
This, I cranked out just now. It's un-beta'd. Guess how I'm feeling right now, while you're at it. "Pent Up" -- Sniper pulled back the bow and fired. Shunk! Bulls-eye. Stupid little two-timin' ankle-biter! No good little Yank! He drew the string back farther, giving it a good deal of tension. Shunk! A hair above his last arrow, still in the Bulls-eye. Can't bloody leave whatnot alone, can he. Can't just fucking shut and piss off. He drew the string again, tighter than was usually called for. Shunk! Beside his first arrow, still in the Bulls-eye. Thinks he's so-o-o fuckin' amazing, he does. Thinks he knows every bloody thing in the world, thinks he can do whatever he damn-well pleases. The bow groaned under the strength of the tension. Shunk! Other side. I'll kill 'im. I'll fuckin' kill 'im, simple as 'at, he comes around me one more time. Shut 'im up, good'n proper; see how big he is then, eh? See if he has anything to say t' me then! Far too tight. Shunk!! Deep in the target. Yellow ring. Fuckin' pin 'im to the ground an' choke 'im. Choke 'is scrawny li'l neck. Both 'ands; squeeze 'is throat shut. Put all yer weight on 'is neck. The bow wasn't made for it. Shunk!! Somewhere else on the target. He'll panic, then. Yeah, he'll thrash'n kick just like an animal. He'll try t'scream too, I reckon. I'll punch 'im in the jaw, I will. Blimey, that'd feel good. Feel perfect. He'll gag, try'n pull my 'ands off. I won't budge, though. No I won't. Again. Shunk!! Somewhere. I'll watch his tiny li'l eyes bulge, watch 'im stretch 'is neck for a breath, but he won't get any breath. No, he'll be quiet for once in 'is pathetic life. He won't say a damn thing. He eased up a bit, but it could've been his strength waning. Shunk! Blue Ring. Watch 'im gag like a fish. That'd be nice. Oh, and when he starts gettin' glazed, I'll ease up. Just a mite, give 'im a quick gasp, then clamp back down. He's not gettin' off that easy, not on my watch. Again. Shunk! Blue ring. Fuck, this wasn't working. He clenched the bow's grip, retrieved all his arrows and stored them again, but only because he knew others would use the target later and damage his shit if it was there. Then, all accounted for, he lugged his Huntsman off to his van to be properly stored in exchange for his Kukri. I*~*I–I*~*I After hearing quite the odd ruckus out on the Practicing Grounds, he decided to poke his head out and see what was going on. He was a bit surprised to find Sniper, of all people, hacking away at some straw-stuffed dummy like it had murdered his dog. He emerged fully and waited for Sniper to address him. When minutes passes and no such recognition was granted, he cleared his throat. Sniper sliced the dummy's head clean off and used the momentum to spin him straight around and look him dead in the eye. "Wot." Spy recoiled, but only slightly. "Is everyzzing alright—" "Does ev'rythin' — look — alroight!?" He whirled back around and sliced the dummy's midsection. "'Ardly, but I 'ave falsely assumed before." "Bugger off, Spook!" Sniper moved to another dummy. Spy puffed on his cigarette, held it in his fingers, but refrained from approaching. "What has stirred you up so, my friend?" "Fuckin' — Scout, who bloody else!?" "Ah," Spy said. "What did ze disrespectful child do to you today?" "Just — kid thinks he knows ev'rythin'!! Thinks no one's been through tough times like he 'as, like he's some patron saint or whateve' the hell!" "Yes, zat sounds like Scout." "He's a bloody, ignorant as hell, shit-faced li'l wanker's wot he is!!" "Always wiz ze talking, and none of ze fighting." "Exactly!! He's a bloody coward!" "He is." "He's a shonky li'l drongo!! A spastic, no-good wanker, who's dying of radiation!" "... On his best days." "He's just a sourpuss, gutless fruit-shop owner. Seat-sniffin' pack'a scum." "The worst kind." Sniper's frantic hacking and slashing had slowed down steadily, considerably, his strength draining little by little with each swing. He kept spitting whatever filthy insults happened to pop into his head, but they were loosing their venom. Eventually, Sniper sighed and sheathed his blade. He finally turned around to face Spy, who was still standing there and watching him calmly. Judging by the cigarette butts littering the ground, Spy had been listening to and watching his pointless aggression for quite a while. Spy didn't have to do that, but Spy knew that already. Sniper sighed again, heavy and exhausted, and walked past the Frenchman. He didn't need to ask Spy to come with him, the man already knew to. Sniper's eyes stayed on the ground because that's just where they wanted to be and he didn't feel like changing it. Spy didn't say a word, merely walked beside him. Sniper didn't mind. If he told Spy that he wanted solitude, he knew that Spy would leave without a word. That was just how Spy was; there when you needed him, gone when you didn't. "Thanks, Spook." "Of course." Sniper found himself walking into the Dining Hall. Thank God it was empty. He sat down at the nearest table and propped his cheek on his fist. Spy sat in the across seat. Sniper stared at the line where surface became suit. He still was too tired to look up. Sniper felt he should say something, but he really didn't want to. He wanted Spy to say something, break the silence, but Sniper knew he wouldn't. Spy would wait patiently for Sniper to talk when he was good and ready. True, it was nothing serious he'd felt, but Sniper didn't usually vent his emotions so blatantly. Therefore, Spy would be patient. Sniper spoke, "Oi c'n unde'stand that he's been through tough toimes in the past, but he's not the only one, roight? We've all been through Hell'n back. It's why we'e he'e." Spy nodded. Sniper paused, then closed his eyes. "Am I... Am I bein' a stinke' fe' gettin' all huffed up ove' this?" "I do not zink so." Sniper opened his eyes and looked at Spy. He was looking right at him. Sniper looked down again. "He does it ev'ry day." "You needed ze release. As ze Docteur might say, 'It is healzzy,'" Spy reasoned. "Suppressed emotions are dangerous zings. Zey will stain ze mind if not washed away quickly." "... Loike blood on a fancy suit," Sniper smiled. Spy's smile was only a bit disgusted. "Oui, you could say zat." Sniper chuckled. "Spoi?" "Sniper?" "I 'preciate it." "Of course."
Heeeeey, guess who turned 18 yesterday! .... Remember me? ... That kid who wrote that one cool story? ... About Scout? .... Why the Rainbows make him cry? .... .... I come bearing gifts!
I wrote this before Meet the Medic came out. I wanted to examine Medic's character. One constant I found in various writers' portrayals was the thought that cutting people open, handling their insides and causing them pain was arousing for Medic. I said nay. >>17 Consider your challenge accepted, Anon. ----- Meet the Medic ----- Another day, another batch of insolent children's knees to slap band-aids onto. Medic sighed and shut the Infirmary door behind him. Scout, Sniper, and Spy scrambled away from each other and sat back onto their metal tables, like three brothers caught rough-housing when they knew they ought to be in bed. The Doctor balked at the sudden movement and more sudden stillness. It took every fiber in his being to only narrow his eyes at them. He cleared his throat and held up his clipboard. He didn't need a clipboard, but he liked to think that using one gave him a more authoritative and professional air. "Yes, now zen... Was ist los dieses Mal?" Eyes fixed on the clipboard, he strode up to Scout. For some reason, he wasn't sitting on a table but standing in front of it and bouncing his foot nervously. When Medic approached, his eyes widened and he stood up a fraction straighter. "Ve haff Herr Scout, vis..." Medic looked up from his clipboard and gave the youngest man a cold but thorough once-over. A deep gash ran along Scout's chest. There was blood all over his shirt, and some caked on his inner arms. Medic raised an eyebrow and looked back at his clipboard to scribble notes. "... ein minor laceration... across ze left und right Pectoralis Major..." He strode to inspect Scout's back, and found the reason for his standing; another gash, smaller than the first, right along his hind-quarters. "... und a second laceration alond ze Gluteus Minimus..." He punctuated his sentence, then lowered his board to examine both wounds closer. Scout didn't look very comfortable with feeling the Doctor's fingers alongside his ass-wound, but he didn't make a sound. Medic stood before him again and scribbled aloud, "Boz cuts appear identical in cause... vide skin pull und mild edge ferocity suggest a large, dull blade–..." His eyes landed on the sleek, glistening blood stains across Sniper's hanging kukri. When he flicked his gaze up at Sniper, the bushman quickly averted his gaze, scratched his face, and cleared his throat. Medic's eyes bore into the side of Sniper's head. He scratched out his last word and wrote 'Kukri.' Scout tittered, shifted his feet, tried to smile, but wound up looking grossed out instead. Medic shook his head and slid over to Sniper, who still refused to make eye contact. Medic's demeanor was a bit more venomous. "Herr Sniper, vis..." Medic looked up. "... numerous bruises und abrasions to ze forearms..." He slid his pencil through the clamp and abruptly yanked Sniper's arm up by the wrist. Sniper grunted, but caught himself from yanking back. "Acute radii... Flex your fingers for me, bitte." Sniper drummed all five easily. "Now ze wrist." He bent his hand down, then up, wincing. Medic made a sound and released Sniper's arm, to the bushman's relief. "Possible muscle damage..." Medic walked around the table to examine Sniper's back. The Doctor recoiled with wide eyes, then returned to the clip board. "Numerous gapink holes along ze Trapezius, inches in depth, likely s–.... stab vounds...." Spy did not make eye contact with the Doctor, choosing to examine the condition of his leather gloves instead. Medic leered and confronted Spy. "Und Herr Schpy, vis..." Medic looked at the man. His suit looked a bit upset, but there were no serious wounds on him. He strolled behind Spy, nothing there either. Medic scowled at him, "Ein svollen brow und black eye. Mein Gott, you zree!!" They all flinched when Medic flung his clipboard onto a nearby examination bed. "Zese vounds are not from survivink Humiliation, zey are... zese are ze results of... of..." He looked like he was on the brink of exploding. "Ein petty pub fight!" Scout and Sniper had the decency to look ashamed, while Spy tried his best to look uninterested. Medic huffed, running a hand through his hair. "Verdammt... you zree... alright, alright, who started it, zen?" Scout and Sniper glanced over at Spy. Spy looked up from his gloves, as if just now realizing he was a part of their ordeal. Medic's eye twitched. One hand clenched, shook, and slowly unclenched. "Fine – zen. Scout! Tushy on ze table; you first!" Panic flooded through Scout as a latex hand landed on him shoulder and pushed him back. He looked as though he wanted to protest, but despite the burn of briefly sitting on an open wound, he said nothing. Medic strode to the nearby supply table and searched through a few drawers. He was mumbling to himself the whole time. When he found what he was looking for, a malicious gleam filled his eye. He whipped a pair of large, formidable, silver scissors up in the air for the world to see, and chuckled a little crazily. Scout practically choked on his own tongue. "Sc-Scissors!? Whath'uh – What the hell happen'a sewin' me up, Doc!?" Medic's delight, as quickly as it had come, vanished. He met Scout's fear with a cold glare. "I cannot very vell sew you up vhen your shirt is still coverink ze vound, now can I, dummkopf?" Confusion, then a wave of understanding followed by utter relief. "O-oh, oh, God..." He laughed nervously. "Jesus, Doc, ya scared th' shit outta me." "Yes, yes, yes," Medic was promptly at Scout's side, pushing him back again so he was lying down, already snipping the fabric around the gash. He made quick work of it. Once the majority of Scout's shirt was hacked up and tossed into his Hazardous Waste bin, Medic put the scissors aside and set to delicately peeling the remaining fabric away. 'Delicately,' meaning that Medic hummed some classical German tune and took his sweet time while Scout flinched, whimpered, and bit his knuckle 'til it bled. Sniper winced with every little noise Scout made and tried to tune it out. His grimace told how well that plan was going. Spy continued to disregard everything happening around him and deftly extracted a cigarette from his case. "Do not... light zat, Herr Schpy..." Medic hissed, tossing the second piece of fabric in the Hazardous Waste bin. Spy's lighter froze just before the flame made it to the cigarette's tip. His eyes flicked sideways, to the back of Medic's head, as if to say, 'Oh... you saw that?' Medic leered without turning around. "You know mein policy on smokink in ze Infirmiry." The Frenchman glared daggers at him, but flicked his lighter shut and replaced the cigarette nonetheless. He muttered something under his breath about oppressive, compulsive psychopaths. Medic brought a couple sterilizing towels to the table and wiped up as much blood as he could, being anything but gentle with the younger man's torn, sensitive skin. Scout's face was one of mute agony. He disposed of the towels and then extracted a large case that all three patients recognized as the Doctor's esteemed stitching needle case. The Doctor opened the case with a slight flourish, grinning from ear to ear. Various flesh-sewing needles came out, Medic holding each one up to the light with a scrutinizing eye before shaking his head an replacing it in favor of another one. Truth be told, Medic knew exactly which needle he needed, but Scout's eyes got wider every time he pulled a new one out. He simply couldn't pass up the chance to milk Scout's Aichmophobia for all it was worth. When the young man looked like he was about to piss himself in sheer terror, Medic decided he'd pushed hard enough and extracted the appropriate needle. Large as his hands were, they were able to thread the stitching easily and with nimble precision. This, apparently, made Scout that much more anxious. Medic realized that Scout was silently hyperventilating. At that rate he would pass out in the middle of the procedure. He just couldn't have that happen while he was in the middle of sewing Scout up. He couldn't have that happen at all. Medic set the needle down and went rummaging through his medical drawers again. This time instead of scissors, he withdrew a small bottle. Without so much as a word, he flicked the lid off, reached into his breast pocket and whipped out a stark white handkerchief, covered the bottle's top and lightly flipped it. Then the bottle was capped up and placed back in it's drawer. Medic paced by Scout's head. The poor youth was sweating bullets. How lovely, he thought fondly. He lowered the handkerchief by Scout's nose. "Scout, could you tell me vat zis smells like to you?" "Wha—uh, oh, kinda likeeeuuh... chluuuuh..." Scout's head lolled to the side. Medic snickered, tucking the cloth back into his breast pocket. "Zat never gets old." Sniper stared at the unconscious runner, sincerely afraid. "Wh-wot... doc, if you don't moind me askin', wot th'bloody hell was'at for?" "Practicality," Medic answered happily. "I cannot be vastink ze last of mein morphine on a patient zat vill very likely be passink out anyvay, ja?" "Last of th– wh– didn't we have near twenty canisters jes' a few weeks ago?" "Twenty five," Spy corrected nonchalantly. Medic leered, as if that were a particular fact he had hoped would go unmentioned. Then, just as suddenly, he waved it off. "Mein medical supplies are beink stolen every time I leave ze room. For all I know, you could be ze van responsible." "Wh-me!? Wot the blazes would I do with twenty canisters'a raw—" "—Twenty five canisters—" "—morphine, doc!?" "How should I know?" Medic shrugged before tying off the first stitch. "Have you found yourself in a constant state of pain, Herr Sniper? If so, I see no reason vhy you vould not come to me for ein proper examination." "Er... yeah... loik when yeh troid takin' off me trigge' finge' after a little nick in the bush?" Medic recalled that exact day and giggled sardonically to himself, coughed, then cleared his throat. "It could haff been infected, Herr. You know I only vish to keep mein speci–krhm, mein colleagues healzy." "Roight..." "You simply do not know." Medic was frank when he spoke, like a concerned nanny, and tied off two more stitches. "I may haff saved your entire proffession zat day." Sniper rubbed his brow and shook his head. Doc just had a whole chest of explanations for everything, didn't he? Medic was well into the third and fourth stitches when he abruptly shot a semi-curious, semi-accusing glare up. "Herr Schpy, vhy are you still here?" "... Ees eet not obvious, Docteur?" The Frenchman gestured to his face. "You haff a black eye! Go; you do not need my assistance." He waved him off. Spy huffed. "But, Docteur, zee swelling, eet ess so painful. And eet looks 'orrendous." Medic narrowed his eyes, tying off number three blindly. "Zere are ice bags in van of ze coolers behind you. You may take van, und zen you may leave." "But Docteur–" "Nein! If you beg for help, you cannot chose how I help you!" Spy huffed, looked back at the coolers then back at Medic. He saw Sniper looking at him wide-eyed, saying nothing, but conveying enough. 'Don't you bloody leave me with him. I'll buy yer next shipment'a fags, do yer chores, anything, just... don't you bloody leave me alone with him!' Spy sneered and slid off of the table, making his way to the stacks of coolers against the wall. Not exactly professional equipment, the coolers, but as the saying goes, 'Any port in a storm.' Medic tied off number four and started working on five and six when Spy suddenly broke the silence with a cry of horrified disgust. Medic's eyes dilated. He put down his needles and flew right over to slam the cooler's lid shut, almost on Spy's fingers. "Not. Zat. Cooler. Schweinehund! Ze ozzer cooler!" Medic opened the blue-lidded cooler beside the first, which was full of ice in cloth bags to emphasize his point. Then he plunged one hand in, shoved a bag into Spy's hands, and ushered him out the door, hissing obscenities in his mother tongue the whole time, and slamming the door behind him. Sniper didn't breathe, only prayed that whatever Spy had seen hadn't made the Doc... too angry..... Medic sighed at the door. He looked at the cooler. Back at the door. Back at the cooler, then at Sniper. He looked the bushman over, scrutinizing. "Do you vant to know vhat is in zat cooler, Herr?" Sniper shook his head. "Gut!" Medic smiled, anger totally forgotten, and resumed his work on Scout. "Sehr gut!" He then muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, "Sie würden nicht verstehen, sowieso. Ich brauche, um ihre Gesichter geschnitten, und die anderen Spy Kopf hatten die besten Gesicht, das ich finden konnte." Sniper gulped.
Loved it!
"You would not understand anyway. I need to cut their faces, and the other spy head had the best face I could find" Yesss
This story is set in the "Why the Rainbows Make Me Cry" universe. (Also connected with a Hipstr RP I was involved in... Krhm.) This takes place a year or two after Scout found out that Mike was murdered. ----- Fixing What's Broken ----- Gregory pushed his arms through the sleeves of his washed-out raincoat and adjusted it before grabbing one of the umbrellas leaning by their apartment door. "The hell're you goin'?" Johnnie tossed over from his seat by the radio. Chris looked up too. "Jay," Greg said with a leer. Their eyes filled with annoyed, half-interested understanding. Greg threw the door wide and fluffed the umbrella. A boom of thunder sounded somewhere far off, as if to say, 'In case you didn't know...' Greg didn't bother acknowledging it. As the oldest living brother, it was his job to make sure Jay wasn't dead or anything serious like that. The city was like a home to them in and of itself. The brothers knew each bend and bump of the roads so well they could map the city blindfolded, and they knew each other just as well. Greg didn't need to think to know where Jay would be moping. So he sloshed through the miniature torrents that ran along the curbs, into the gutters, and god only knew where they went after that. He shuffled beneath his nylon umbrella as it was bombarded by rain the size of bullets. A shit-storm surrounded his little bubble of 'dry', and it made a small part of him feel alone. It made him think of Mike, how this would've been him going out to drag Jay's ass back home. "Miss ya, brotha..." he muttered to the rain. Christopher Columbus Park. A picture of perfection in dry weather, utterly miserable in a storm. Their diamond was situated right on the edge of the actual park's boundaries, near the road. Approaching the diamond from home's direction, the miniature forest was right behind the diamond. Greg squinted through the rain. He couldn't really see, but he could hear the shouting and grunting and sobbing that was confirmation enough. Greg walked through their baseball diamond, beautiful old friend she was, and made for the forest. Sure enough, as he closed the distance the noises grew louder and clearer. Greg could make out the red shirt that he knew all too well. From there he approached with ease. Justin was practically hurling himself at one particularly thick tree trunk, kicking it and punching it as if it had insulted Ma. Oddly enough, his tantrum wasn't clumsy. His kicks were deliberate, his punches were dead on, full force. His face was unreadable through the rain, but it was clear he'd been crying pretty hard, and for a long time. Greg sighed, quietly enough that the rain would drown it out. He slid a hand into one of the raincoats pockets and watched Jay let it out. And he did. It was something Ma had talked about when Greg had been just a kid, watching his brothers grow up with him. When a baby cries, it isn't always because it wants food, or needs a diaper change, or anything like that. Sometimes a baby's just cranky and needs to cry. All you can do then is let them get it out. After that they sleep like a rock. Jay never had grown out of his tantrums though. When it came to emotions, there was no bottling him up. He just exploded, for better or for worse. Usually for worse. It was the cause behind a lot of his screw-ups in life, Mike included, and if Greg had to guess, this one was no exception. Jay swung his foot and kicked another good chunk of bark off the trunk, but in doing so he slipped in the mud and landed on his ass with a loud splat. Greg smirked a bit. For a moment Jay just sat there, unsure of what the hell had just happened, then suddenly threw himself down with the loudest, most miserably defeated groan Greg had ever heard out of Justin. Then he began crying, full-out. And it wasn't a baby, or a little bitch. It was a guy who had just lost the girlfriend he still loved to the world's biggest dick-head of a Spy. Greg couldn't help but pity him. He casually walked up beside Justin's body, splayed in the mud and shaking, without a single fuck given. Justin's eyes opened only a bit. Greg couldn't tell if Justin saw him though the combination of tears and rain. If Justin did, then he didn't acknowledge him. "Hey Jay." Justin closed his eyes again with conviction. "Quit being a raw pussy an' get up. We gotta get home." "Leme th'fuck'lone." "I said get up, squid-brick." Greg dealt a kick to his side, not hard enough to damage but enough to get the message across. Justin grunted, but still wouldn't budge. He only groaned louder. Greg swore he was going to throttle him. Mike could've gotten him home easy. This wasn't Greg's job, why'd he have to do it? "Would you quit mopin' and whinin' about that dumb bitch dumpin' ya? Jesus Christ, you are a fuckin' peach!" A sudden kick to the shin got Greg's attention. "Don't fuckin' call her that, her name's Fran you bastard!!" Greg kicked him back "I'll call her whatever the fuck I want! You ain't gonna stop me! An' why the hell you stickin' up for her? She dropped you, you should be out eggin' her house or som'n!" Justin hesitated, then his muscles went slack again, that miserable look right back where it had been. Greg mentally swore. He'd hoped that that would work. Fuck, where was Mike when you needed him? "A'ight, look. Jay, I know... you wanna go jump in front of a train or some shit right now... but just, get up and walk. And listen. 'Cuz I got t'say shit you need t'hear." He pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out to Justin. Justin eyed it. "You ain't the only one lost a girl in this family, man." Justin looked at him, then back at his hand. After a moment's hesitation, he reluctantly took it. Greg hoisted him onto his feet and let him stand under the umbrella, despite how he was covered in mud. Justin didn't seem to notice this fact. They began on their stroll through the empty park. I*~*I "So this Max guy... she's got crushed by him before." "Yeah." "An' now she's leavin' you to go back to this nut job?" "Uh-huh." "A'ight. Justin. Look. I dunno what you saw in this dame, but I can tell ya right now ya better off with her gone." "Naw, but it's like–" "She left ya for a Spy! If this Fran chick was really all she's cracked up t'be, only good thing she'd ever see in a Spy is how fuckin' easy his skull is to bash in. And not only that, but she's goin' back to a guy she knows ain't good for her. She's a dumb bitch! Simple as that!" "She's not–" "She is, Justin. Open ya eyes an' look at the fuckin' picture he'e. She ain't worth it. She didn't know a good thing when she had it, she's a dumb bitch." "Guh..." "Now... not to say you didn't screw it up too...." "Oh Christ, don't, Greg..." "Naw, naw, just listen, a'ight? Now.... tell me about Pops." "I–... what!?" "Tell me what you think'a Pops." "What's that got t'do with Fr–" "Answer the fuckin' question, numnuts!" "I– fuckin' hate his ass!" "Why?" "'Cuz he- fuckin'- walked out on us when– walked out on Ma when she needed him!" "If he showed up one day outta nowhere, what would ya do?" "I'd fuckin' kill him, what else!?" "S'what I thought." "What are you talkin' about Greg, what's this got t'do with me an' Fra–....." "Ya gonna finish ya sentence, Jay?" "... Oh." "Tcheah. 'Oh.'" ".... Fuck, I...." "Y'get it now, squid-brick? She fuckin' needed you an' you bailed on her ass. You ran. Now, I prob'ly would'a done the same, but that ain't the point. You's got a job to fuckin' be there for her when no one else is. Like, ah... like Superman, say. Shit goes down, he's there. Always fuckin' there. If shit went down, an' he jus' said, 'Welp, good luck, bitches!' and zoomed off, what the hell kinda superhero's that? Y'know? 'Cuz that's what you did. An' you don't just forgive som'n like that." "......" "Now... look. I know, ya just wanted to get laid.... I can hook you up with someone, but you gotta swear t'quit with the fuckin' prissy act, yeah? Y'make the whole family look bad with this shit." ".... Sure, whatever....." "Hey, man, wake up. Sox are gonna be here next weekend." "... Shit, next weekend!? It is next weekend!!" "Yeah!?" "Holy fuck, dude, we gotta break out our bats, I gotta clean my shit up for the signing!" "Yeah, see? That's what I'm talkin' about!! Hahaa!"
This is all I have left from a forsaken horror piece. It's dated, but I still kinda like what I had. ----- The Mann They Left Behind ----- On November 29, 1969, a retired European spy, whose identity will not be disclosed under federal law, was found dead in his home. His body was discovered slouched over a writing desk with a .38 custom Colt Diamondback Revolver sitting in his open left hand, and a bullet through his head. Investigators believe that, shortly after writing in a small, black notebook which was found open on the desk at the scene, the man committed suicide. Investigators confiscated the journal as evidence and brought it back to headquarters to be documented and analyzed for any clues as to why the man killed himself. The documented entries provided such evidence. The following documents are protected under federal law, and are not to be transcribed, disclosed, or reproduced in any way, by means of any medium. The facts and overall integrity of the events documented in these entries is unknown. :—:—:—: Thursday, 5th of November, 1969 My God. It has been years. So many long, deadly, tiring years. I have worked with these men for so long. And it all ends like this. I could fill books with what has happened over the past few years. But I won't. No one would read them. I would not read those books, even though they are stories I would give my life to have back. I would not have the strength to read them. There is no need to dance around the facts. I am no longer a Spy for Builder’s League United. As Soldier might say, I went AWOL. L'Administrateur expected us to approach her if we ever wished to terminate our contracts. She thought I was a fool. She thought we were all fools. That woman is in control of every beat and breath of that war. Every day could have been the final day, but it never was. She wanted us to fight until her dying breath, because every time we took ours, new life was pumped through our bodies and we lived again. Immortal mercenaries fighting to please their Goddess. Oh no, she would not have allowed me to leave with my life. I did not abandon the job for any righteous purpose. Even in its meaninglessness, I did not hate the war in any way. Quite the contrary; the war gave me eight -colleagues I cou- friends in whom I could trust with any of my many secrets, had I wished to share them. Those men were the closest things I had to family, even when I -despised th- resented them. They -are the only- were the only eight men in the world I would not feel the need to kill for the sake of protecting my true identity, if they ever learned it. I left the war because I could not stay any longer. Not after what happened. Not after what I witnessed inside Mann Manor. I was debriefed after I made it back to our Home base; forced to rely as much of it to my higher authorities as I could. But I didn’t. I could not! They would have deemed me insane, unfit for the battlefield, and they would have killed me immediately. I said what they wanted me to say; that it was nothing more than a moment of weakness, that Sniper and I were confronted by a man that had finally snapped and tried to kill us. L’Administrateur accepted this and dispatched her henchmen to find the necessary replacements before, as she put it, ‘RED planned another attack on our territories’. But it was nothing so innocent as a man’s sanity snapping. What took place that night, in that wooden room over the underground waterways, was the work of things beyond the living world. I am not a religious man, but I believe that to this day. I cannot, however, abandon this world without relying the real story to someone. I want nothing more than to forget it all forever, but to take the tale to my grave would destroy all lasting memories of those -colleagues- -friends lost- teammates lost. I cannot let them be forgotten. They were great men, even in their disturbing, aggravating ways. To whomever may find my journal, I ask that you do only two things for me and my teammates; read these following entries, read everything, no matter how long it may take you, and then take my journal. Take it, and keep it someplace safe. Whatever happens, their tale cannot be lost. I am exhausted, and it is late. If I have enough cigarettes for it, then tomorrow I will begin. Friday, 6th of November, 1969 Nicotine gives my a far steadier hand than I deserve. Before I explain that night, I must inform you, whomever you are, of a few simple truths, or else these events will make little sense. There were only nine of us fighting for BLU's territory, and we died many times. But we came back every time. Our minds and bodies were stored as computer data in a machine known as R.E.S.P.A.W.N. None of us understood how it was able to rebuild a man in his entirety, but we did accept that it could do it. The R.E.S.P.A.W.N. Matrix extended over every territory we fought for, so that we would always be reborn if we died on the battlefield. We were forbidden from trying to attack the enemy's R.E.S.P.A.W.N., and they were forbidden from attacking ours. Our goal was to overpower and best the enemy; not eliminate. Now and again, new territories of the Mann Co. are found at long last. If this happens, we are informed of these new areas and given maps of the territory to allow for pre-battle familiarization and strategizing. During this time, the Administration sets up the R.E.S.P.A.W.N. Matrix to extend over that territory.
Ah, quick question. Since my Rainbows had buried itself in the back of the thread list, would it be appropriate to post the rest of the story up here? Just wondering. Also! My progress on the next origin story, for Heavy and Medic. It's slow, but it's coming along. I've been off my game lately, but I'm working to get myself moving again!