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“Crikey!” the lanky huntsman exclaimed as he jumped away from the window, hitting his head on the rough wood above him. He turned just in time to catch the corpse of one of his teammates tumble down the stairs, a steaming bullet hole cleanly marking the space between the Medic’s eyes.
Sniper forced himself to breath, hands shaking as he adjusted the hat that had nearly flown off his head, trying to keep the rifle in his hand from slipping in between his fingers.
The sound of a disguise disintegrating behind him gave him all the confirmation he needed. Steadying his hands with inhuman will, he quickly recalled the trajectory of the enemy Sniper’s bullet to find that the bleeding moron hadn’t moved an inch.
The RED bet that his counterpart had no idea he had just taken out his own teammate either.
In a flash he had steadied his scope on the BLU’s forehead. The man was too busy aiming elsewhere to take any notice. A rough chuckle sounded from his throat as his finger itched against the trigger.
“Off with yer head,” he growled, and not a second later the enemy Sniper’s lifeless body stumbled and collapsed backwards as a bullet pierced through his brain, a final scream of agony and a face stricken with pain the only indications that he had ever breathed.
Smirking, the accomplished assassin wiped his brow before zooming in on the battle below.
His team was actually pushing the point rather well, each class causing significant damage to the enemy team in their own way as the real Medic took care to replenish their strength and health regularly. Nodding approvingly, he stepped back and turned towards the corpse that had fallen no more than 15 seconds prior.
Which meant that he had definitely not expected to turn round and actually find a corpse. Those disappeared rather quickly thanks to respawn.
And suddenly Sniper froze, his trigger hand twitching once more.
Had respawn glitched? The thought sent a wave of anxiety through his chest.
And before he knew it, he was anxious for another reason.
He felt the soft metal ghost his jugular even before he saw the glint of the butterfly knife sparkle in the light, cold and threatening. He tried his hardest not to breathe too heavily as a gloved hand slithered its way towards his mouth.
Now breathing through his nose, the bushman moved one hand to attempt to ease the gradually pressing knife off of his already slightly red throat, and the other to hold up as a sign of defenselessness. He knew the bastard enjoyed playing puppet master.
Which led him to another thought.
He wasn’t dead.
Not yet anyway.
Why hadn’t he felt the sharp jolt of a knife sinking into his spine? Why hadn’t he crumpled forward, dead before he hit the ground?
And as thought after thought badgered Sniper, he felt genuine fear trickle into him. This was new. He didn’t like new.
Not when it came to this contract anyway.
The sound of another gadget brought Sniper back to reality.
“Good day, bushman,” a silky voice teased as the Spy finally uncloaked himself, a sly smile that was strangely tense splayed across his face.
“Spook,” the huntsman attempted to grumble in return, but in vain as his voice was mostly muffled by the other mercenary’s hand.
The snake seemed to understand the hoarse voice regardless however, and chuckled. The sound brought a frown onto the Sniper’s face, as it didn’t hold the usual tone of triumph. No, it was almost as if it was forced from the Frenchman’s mouth.
Despite the masked assassin’s strange behavior, Sniper tensed in his grip. Irrational thoughts had slowly crept from the deeper crevices of his mind, giddy at the chance to be heard. Now at mental war, the Sniper grimaced as the Spy pressed the knife closer to his throat.
Deep down he had known that one day this would come. The silent backstabber would grow tired of quickly and mercifully ending his life. He would get tired of sending him back to respawn with only a short shock of unbearable pain to withdraw from memory.
The bushman took a shaky breath from his nose once more before glancing around the room. There had to be something he could us. Anything at all. His eyes glanced down to his pants to find the kukri that was always sheathed around his belt, but were disappointed to find it nowhere in sight.
He’d left it at the Engineer’s chamber, he remembered. It had been broken after yesterday’s match concluded, and the poor hardhat hadn’t even a second to fix it. He had promised him his beloved weapon tonight.
But tonight was too late for him now.
Too entrapped in his own panicked thoughts, the taller man barely heard the very quiet confession that came from the Spy’s mouth, unexpected and genuine.
“Forgive me.”
And suddenly the tensed hand was sinking the small blade into his abdomen.
Screaming in both surprise and pain, the Sniper clutched at the hand that continued to twist the blade in his gut. It took only a moment for their hands to be splattered with the huntsman’s blood, almost soaked by the fourth second. And when the blade seemed as if it had gone as far as it could, the gloved hand pulled it out, and stabbed it into the unmarked surface right next to it.
The spook’s hand covered any noise he made no matter how loud, the sounds trapped by both skin and glove.
His vision blurred as he coughed into the hand, blood bursting out from the back of his throat. He’d thought he had built up some kind of pain tolerance by now. He’d thought that having entire limbs blown off or multiple bones broken in an instant had boosted his endurance. But it hadn’t.
It hurt so horribly, the wounds sending waves of mind-bending pain through his body. He didn’t even notice the first tear spill over and onto the scar that this very same bastard had marked across his face.
Through the pain, one thing kept ebbing at his brain. One stupid, stupid and unnecessary thought, especially in the situation that he found himself in.
Why wasn’t the Spy laughing? Or hell, smiling? The Sniper had caught sight of his face through his blurry vision, and it looked as if it held no emotion, entirely unreadable except for a tiny glimpse of…
Guilt?
The huntsman knew he was being delusional; he was quite literally bleeding out to death at this point. The Spy was his enemy, and had most likely dreamed of this very moment for a long time.
And now it was happening.
The hand around his mouth relaxed as its owner realized that the Sniper’s vocal chords had either cracked, or that he simply had no energy to make another sound.
The RED went limp in the BLU’s hold, his head slumping forward as everything slowly turned numb. He barely registered the angered sound of the Announcer’s voice as it boomed throughout the base.
Alert! The enemy has taken our intelligence!
The words were only barely understood by the dying man. He strung his last coherent thought together.
This was a distraction… the bloody spook “distracted” me long enough for…
His mind let go of the unfinished sentiment. His clouded blue eyes turned to stare into the face of his murderer who stood, no, sat, beside him.
He’d never died this slowly. Through this much pain. He could see blood everywhere, but he couldn’t feel it anymore.
Please just let me die. Please…
Unknowingly, the lanky man begged through his eyes, the only part of his body that hadn’t shut down. He would never know, nor would the Spy tell him, that in that moment he lay in the other man’s arms.
And when he truly registered the look on the Spy’s face, a small delirious pop of amusement sparked in his dying mind.
Heh…
It kind of looks like he’s crying, don’t it?