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Ugh. Waking up again, to the sound of soldier outside my van screaming America's national anthem and banging pans together. I had spent most of last night looking for unsuspecting victims to turn into mist (which yes, may be my favourite past time but half asleep? Usually it took the fun out of it) and I couldn't find anyone. It was dead out there. Still. Boring. And it just dragged on forever to the point I dropped my guard. Then he turned up. He seems to only turn up for me, not his kid, not his wife, not even his team. Just to backstab me with a shitty French remark and a snort while I lean over the railing and the ground gets closer. Wait what? Ground getting closer..?
I hear bones crunch and pain sears through my head seeming to come in waves more excruciating than the last. Just about seeing him wave his bloodied, gloved hand with a mocking smirk on his face.
His smirk follows me everywhere since the first time I saw it. I dragged myself back to my van, putting my sniper rifle delicately against the seats before grabbing an empty jar and chucking it across the van hitting the exact point I expected it to. Precise, I'm never off my mark, but neither is he. My bed calls for me like a song after defeat from his hands. Smooth leather gloves. Stainless steel knives, apparently the most expensive in France (if his red counterpart is similar), in all of Europe apparently.
That bloody blu spy. Never leaving my thoughts, never leaving my location, never leaving me. The other spy I can deal with, he only talks to me to complain about his wife or his children. Especially Jeremy. He won't shut up about Jeremy. I think he feels guilty? But that's not the point. I can't stop thinking about him. It's like a plague. He's the only person I look for on the field trying to corner him and get him back (or so I convince myself).
I try to sleep. Its restless. My parents are a key part of my dreams. Mum scolds me for ever being an assassin, dad seems disappointed while saying I'm a ruthless killer, both of them telling me to stay safe and come back soon. There voices seem so distant. I haven't spoken to them for months.
Now. Back to my point. New day, new battle. I feel refreshed and ready for him- I mean to beat him. Pulling my sniper rifle from where I left it yesterday, being just careful enough to avoid the glass I smashed yesterday. God, I hardly change my clothes, yeah, it's disgusting but who cares when your fighting a war? I sure don't, maybe spy do- Not today. I'm not letting him distract me, I'm putting more effort in.
I stroll out of my van, just as soldier walks back into the base. Good, he always seems to ask the worst questions. They are always way too personal or he starts yelling that I'm not putting enough effort into things.
Sometimes I feel as if im the only sane person here. Its just me, my gun and my kukri against the blu team. My feet seem to just take me to the base and the corner that feels the most secure. It's sometimes occupied by the spy but not often. Today, it is. I'm gonna have to talk him into moving. Again.
"Spy, mate, can you move?"
"Ah, bushman. I'm afraid I can not do that. There is no where else to sit or stand, see?" He gestures around the space and he is indeed correct. No more room available to sit, but to stand? There's plenty. I hate it when any of these bastards wind me up.
"Well, there is plenty of space to stand." I mimic his hand motion.
"No where is more comfy than this, you have to understand that."
This bastard! Can't he understand this is my spot? I never get any kidney of respect from these idiots that are called a team. I'm bundled in with talentless dummies!
I must of been making some kind of face because he sighs then speaks:
"Fine filthy bushman, have your spot. I can't be bothered to deal with your hiss fit."
I can't help but be offended from the comment to so I wait until he's settled against another wall before I slink into my position. I'm slightly hunched over twirling my kurki in both hands. It doesn't look comfortable but for some reason it is.
Roughly 10 minutes later, the soldier starts shouting again. Something about how we're lacking in battle? The only thing I registered is how much people were staring at me during it like its my fault. It isn't I assure you. Its probably like scouts fault. Or the medic. Or the spy. Or like anybody else apart from me.
The administrators voice shakes me out of my thoughts as she booms through the megaphones.
"Only 5 minutes remain until we're unleashed opon the enemy! Only 5 minutes left until we fight for America!" Is what soldier keeps saying. 'America this!' America that!' I will shove his rocket launcher straight up his ass one day.
Anyways, the doors open and I run straight to my sniper nest. Its located on the watch tower. All my stuff is left there from last night. A few empty jars, a few full ones. My coffee machine, my coffee cup (which has the last dregs of cold coffee that I down immediately) and my fold up chair. I can see the entire arena from here.
My eyes search for spook. He seems to be nowhere. Maybe he's ill. I sure hope his medic is nothing like ours. Our medic leaves us on the battle field for out heavy and no one else. I can see their medic though. So, I line up my rifle, look down the scope and fire off a shot. Boom, headshot. A perfect one if I do say so myself.
Time flies as I get headshot after headshot. I keep drinking my coffee while I do, making sure I can stay focused but it's not even that hard. It's like breathing for me. However, the blu spy is nowhere to be seen. I'm starting to feel a pit in my stomach. Like the one I felt when the medic told me I had to get surgery, or like the one I got when I told Saxton I wasn't actually Australian. But, the one it's most similar to is the time my parents weren't responding to my calls. The missing of a loved one. I'm not a gay man though. I never have been and I never will, and no, that one time in college doesn't count beacuse I said so.
It's then when I hear shuffling behind me. I try to pull out my knife as quickly and quietly as possible. But it's not quick enough. The masked man, takes my beloved kurki and chucks it out of the watchtower, he then starts walking towards me until I'm leaning against the railing. The same railing I fell off of last night by his hands. He's only inches away from my face, before he puts his butterfly knife to my throat.
The metal of the blade is a nice cool temperature, in contrast to my skin. Wait, what? Its a colder day from the last few. My jaw goes slack as I realise what is going on. I'm blushing down to my neck. It's then he speaks.
"Finally realised, filthy jar man?" His voice holds the same mocking tone as bullies.
"Get off of me, you fancy wuss! This is war not your little game!"
He smirks in response to my outcry. I try to think as quickly as I can. The outcome is me trying to shove him off of me. I do it as hard as I can twice, and he grunts slightly the second time, but goes back into position. I start scratching and clawing at his fancy suit, and any other time I would feel guilty about trying to ruin his beautiful clothes but he's basically laying on top of me. The response I get this time is the knife staring to dig deeper into my skin. I feel blood run down my neck and soak into my collar. This cunt! He's bleeding me out slowly and painfully.
"Aww, look at you bushman. Struggling to get out of an enemies grip while blushing like a school girl. Pathetic."
He spits in my face on the last remark. That's when I decide to pull out my last stop. I grab onto his shoulders, he puts the knife further in my throat and I jump off the railings, clinging onto the enemy for dear life.
I imagine it might look romantic as I cling onto him, basically hugging him, while one of his hands holds the knife, now nearly lodged into my neck, the other round my waist.
Everything seems to stop as we fall. I get time to get a good look at him. There seems to be an unmeasured fear in his eyes as they lock with mine and I smirk.
"Merde." Is the last thing I hear before I hear the bone crunching I've seem to gotten used to within the past few days.
The rest of the battle goes smooth, and I don't see him again. But I know he was there, because as the battle ends I see a small piece of folded paper. The fancy cursive writing is hard to read for a few seconds but I can just about make out the words. It says:
"Nice one, bushman. I'll be prepared for next time."