Chapter Text
“Aaaaand… boom .”
A cluster of buckshot careened through the dirty brown surface of another empty beer bottle. The hard New Mexico ground was already littered with a fine mist of pulverized glass, Red Shed malt, and splinters of wood from destroyed bottle crates. Deft hands racked the lever of a shotgun, chambering another round and sending a spread of buckshot into the side of another crate.
“I am owning you tonight, Legs. Only a few more and you’ll be handing your stash over to me.”
The scout snapped his gum, unsubtly gloating.
The sniper scraped the ember of his burnt-down cigarette against the butt of his new first-generation Walther WA200, letting the last bit of smoke from his mouth drift into the warm desert winds. He wasn’t about to get on his friend’s case for not using the slugs they agreed on, he was too tired to fight someone as self-adamant as the scout. He scoffed and gazed down the scope, returning his breathing to its perfected 4-4 box rhythm.
A bullet trailed by a thin red strip of fire punched a hole clean through the side of a ceramic growler filled with years-old rainwater.
“Over my dead body. You’ll get a jing banga and nothin’ more if you keep running your mouth.”
He slammed the back of the rifle and detached the box magazine, hoping to himself that the next one wouldn’t be full of tracer rounds. Sniping was supposed to be subtle- he didn’t put it past the BLU team to try and one-up them, though. The war was getting desperate on both ends; he grinned though, knowing that he played a part in it. Especially by helping to steal their brand new weapons shipment.
With the other team recovering from a laundry list of losses, tonight was the perfect night to test the spoils of war and waste as much ammo as they wanted. He personally didn’t care for the new bullpup style rifles, but he was willing to try new things just in case he got caught in a last-resort situation.
“Keep lying to yourself, man. I’ll be hotboxing your camper before you even get the chance to reload that plank.”
The scout switched to his brand-new derringer pepperbox and pumped a few rounds into a nearby cactus for show, a few thorn-laden chunks coming too close for comfort. The shorter runner not so subtly relished in the fact that his taller coworker grimaced at the near-miss; getting under his skin was becoming increasingly easier.
“Cope all ya want, laddies- if anyone here is gonna be gettin’ faded this evenin’, it’s me .”
The demoman crammed a handful of circular projectiles into a modified double-barrel China Lake, snapping it shut and hefting his mostly-empty bottle of rye whiskey to his lips.
“Oi- slugs and bullets only, we agreed on this.”
“Wasn’t payin’ attention. Eh, can’t stop me now, can ye?”
The Scotsman’s two coworkers grimaced as he walked up to the firing line, obliterating half of the makeshift range within the span of a few seconds. It was obvious that he was the winner of whatever challenge they were halfheartedly competing in, just by rite of collateral damage.
“ BOOM . Yer kush is mine , bushman! Pay up!”
The demoman cheered raucously, finishing off his whiskey and throwing the bottle against the nearest saw yucca, giggling as it bounced several feet into the air and smashed onto the ground.
“Argh… fine. I’ll go in and roll you a spliff- you gotta let me have a hit though, I paid for it.”
The marksman lamented the loss of his weed stash- it was the good shit, from Colorado. He kicked himself for not betting something he’d miss less, like a cookbook or that really soft possum pelt hanging on the back of his couch. He doubted to himself that the demoman needed to be consuming any other substance in the moment- god forbid, while in the presence of firearms- but he was a man of his word.
“What’s the bloody point of competing for yer weed if you aren’t gonna jus’ hand it over, ya weasel?!”
“I could just give it to ya loose. M’ doin ya a favor by rolling it since we all know you can’t roll a spliff to save your life.”
He tossed his rifle aside and ducked into the camper to rummage through his less-than-legal paraphernalia box. Outside, his coworkers milled about absently and chatted- some conversation about new door-breacher slugs from the sounds of it.
“Hey… Mundy? Tav? Did you guys invite anyone else?”
The scout paused the conversation and peered against the lowering sun, the rippling light blocked by some ominous shape standing just past the limit of his detailed vision. The sniper peeked out of the camper; through his orange-tinted lenses he could see the distinct silhouette of a human- not nearly distinct enough to be anyone he knew, though.
“Not that I know of.”
“Probably not Spy- no way in hell is he just gonna waltz out here for any reason.”
Another similar-looking figure clambered over the ridge, unsteady on its feet. Its posture registered as ape-like to the Sniper’s brain. Something about its general presence made the long-unused “stranger danger” instinct in the scout’s brain start blaring.
“Who the hell are these guys?”
“Not ours. Last time I checked, RED wasn’t hirin’ junkies.”
As a rogue cloud drifted in front of the sun, their appearance became more obvious. From a first glance, it was evident they weren’t mercenaries under anyone’s payroll- their haggard frames, wild greasy hair, and tattered clothes betrayed any affiliation or organization.
They slid down the hill with bare feet, stopping only a few yards away from the camper van and makeshift shooting range. Even from a distance, the three mercenaries could smell the distinctive sickly metallic scent wafting off of them. Tension immediately crowded the air like an old western standoff.
“Ey- this is private property. You guys gotta leave.”
The scout took initiative and racked the lever of his shotgun, chambering a slug he’d been saving for later. He hoped the mere presence of a gun- or hopefully his height- would be enough to deter the men and send them running, preferably with metaphorical tails between their legs.
Neither of the men flinched- one cocked his head curiously, just to add insult to injury.
“I fucking mean it. Get out of here, or you’re eating lead- we have the right to stand our ground.”
The strangers whispered to eachother hoarsely, whatever language they were speaking was completely unintelligible. The sniper was no polyglot, but he was well-traveled- and he didn’t think any language out there involved growling. He felt the hair on the back of his neck and arms prickle as the men lurched forward, taking a few steps closer to him.
Their soulless eyes focused on him and started sizing him up- he saw gangly shoulders flex as they stopped slouching, puffing out their chests in some animalistic attempt at showing dominance. They were almost ape-like, in a disturbing way- better yet, like junkies with baboon brains shoved into their fried skulls. He almost scoffed, realizing he, an assassin, was afraid of two ill-groomed waifish strangers.
The brief burst of pride died in his chest as something else made its way down the hill- he smelled it first, actually. Burning hair, sour meat, ash and smoke from a housefire. Just seeing it made bile immediately rise in his throat.
It was a wolf… possibly. Its head matched the rough shape, sure it had paws, but no wolf the sniper had ever encountered stood as tall as a full-grown mule deer. Normal wolves didn’t have 5-toed paws with claws the shape of fishhooks. Even heavily mutated or inbred wolves didn’t look like they had the wide eyes of a human cadaver, freshly transplanted into their sockets.
The beast craned its long, gangly neck forward and sniffed the air with a horse-like snort, tongue lolling out in some faux Jacobson’s response. His hand shook as he unlatched the top button of his kukri holster, index finger rubbing over the metal tang in an attempt to ground himself.
He glanced nervously at his companions, equally confused and as frozen as him. None of them were adequately prepared for encounters with mutant, borderline demonic looking animals.
“Call off your dog, mate. We don’t have to resort to anything drastic- just… turn around and walk off. Won’t call the cops or nothin’.”
The two men let out a stream of gravelly chortles, taking a defiant step forward as they followed the actions of the massive dog. Only a few yards stood between the mercenaries and the feral-looking men; a few quick strides and they’d be on top of them before they could get their bearings. The sniper took a deep breath and stepped back, careful to not make any sudden movements that could spur on any hidden instincts that lay within the wolf.
“Get to the front of the van. Slowly. Get in the driver’s seat and gun it once I give the signal, ‘kay? I’ll get in the back. Don’t worry.”
The sniper mumbled to his companions, keeping an eye trained on the wolf. Its body language was extremely confusing- its posture drifted from cat-like to bear-like to moose-like every time he tried to refocus on it to look for weak spots. If there was an uncanny valley equivalent for animals, this thing was in the deepest trenches.
A clicking emanated from deep within its throat as it took a large step forward, bearing its teeth in a snarl. Any reassurance of escape was pretty much quashed as the wolf stared the sniper down.
“ No. You won’t. ”