1 . Name: Reavv @ 2012-01-18 19:34

Blu Engineer/Red Spy rape fic
Unfinished as of yet.
(Corrected with Canadian spelling)
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You know the cruelty of human nature better than most; you have an intimate relationship with the type of brutality that greed and desperation breed. You have travelled far and wide and have concluded that, no matter where you go, you can never out run the waves of regret that follow.

The men at 2Fort are a prime example of this.

Take, for instance, the Engineer.

In battle he could be described as a frantic war machine, building his own small army of death and rebirth. He is the king to his own little kingdom, and trespassers are never welcome. He can be seen setting up teleport machines, turrets and dispensers where ever he sees most fit, weaving in and out of battle and dodging projectiles while lugging the heavy burdens. His methods are never fully explained but always effective.

He isn’t just for defence either; with that new arm of his, he can also be seen darting to the front lines with a mini sentry - even during the small respites of battle he could be seen doing something, and it is usually done with the intention of killing you and your teammates.

He has dedicated precision when out there on the field, thinking a step ahead and plotting the trajectory that he knows you will follow. He has ingenious tools and even more ingenious means of using them, and is never afraid to do so. You have lost count of the times you have died to that blasted wrangled sentry he sets up in the most unexpected places.

His short stature makes it easy to underestimate him, and, although stocky, he doesn’t seem as imposing as the Heavy, or anywhere near as fast as the Scout. You don’t understand why he keeps getting the better of your team; what makes him so hard to kill. The best bet is to face him head on when he is alone, or when he is distracted with his machines. He is smart with the way he fights, never letting you get a chance at his back or neck… and more than willing to call for help.

If you didn’t have your invisibility or disguises you would never be able to get near enough to kill him. You are one of the only ones that can get a pick on him and his sentries, besides an ubered Heavy, and he goes out of your way to make your job as difficult as he can.

There is a frustration when fighting the Engineer, but there is fear too.

The careless regard towards life is unsurprising considering the job, even expected, but you cannot help but feel that he has developed it into an art form. His sentries can mow down a group like they are the cardboard-cut-outs Soldier loves so much. He has painted the walls with blood, your blood, and he never once flinches. Instead he can be heard laughing; a quiet, dangerous chuckle that sends shivers down your back.

When fighting, it is expected of one to kill, to dismember, to confuse and misdirect and do all sort of depraved things that normal society shuns. He is not alone in this, not unique. But it is off the battle field that makes you dread him so much.

Out of the dust and grit he looks like just another man. His smile is cheerful, his mirth warm, and he never has anything bad to say to anyone… besides you. He is polite, calm, the type of person that breaks up the fights instead of starting them. He can cook decently, and even knows how to stich a ripped shirt. If someone has a problem in need of fixing they go first to the Engineer, because that is what he does.

He even gets along with most of his team, including the Pyro, and although he acts antagonistic toward your twin there never seems to be any real malice, at least, that anyone can call him on.
It is slightly ridiculous the way the other team looks towards him for guidance, how they turn a blind eye towards his cruelty, and you are disgusted that you find yourself not completely immune.

He is a complete fake.

It is convincing too. People forget his blood soaked hands when looking at his charming smile, relax around him and ask him for advice. He seems to be a natural born leader (or manipulator, hah) that cares about his co-workers.

They forget about the man who had cut off his own hand to replace it with a machine. They forget about the man who systematically ripped apart their counterparts with glee and whose violent temper had once sent the Soldier to the infirmary with cracked ribs.

They forget about the animal just under the gentle Texan’s skin.

You haven’t.

You can’t.

Not with the knowledge you harbour that bites and claws at your mind, not with the way his eyes find yours across the fence and the way he smiles, lips stretching in a mockery of human emotion.

His express says “Tell them, I dare you.”

You refuse to answer the bait, even as you realise this is just another manipulation. Your pride is such that you wouldn’t anyways, though perhaps that might have changed in time. As things stand you can do nothing but wait, and dread. Hope a little too, that he will turn his attention elsewhere.

He never lets you wait too long.

He is efficient in everything, even this, and you curse him at the same time as you sigh in relief.
The waiting is almost worse than the act itself, and you have been torturing yourself with wonderings and scenarios.

There is precision in this too, like there is precision in everything he does, and at the start he treated you very much like one of his blasted machines.

It is something you have noticed before, in his interactions with the others. It is in the way he guides them with words, like if he can get it just right everything will fall into place and he will have a perfect, finished result.

He never seems to get disappointed when that turns out to be false, even seems to relish it as if everyone around him where some stubborn misfiring sentry and he needs to fix. It is a challenge to him, a mission. And he is just as stubborn as to see it through.

After the initial interaction he had shed his analytical mindset - not completely, never completely - and gets into it with a cruel enthusiasm that rivals the Medic’s on a rampage. It is a cold passion, detached as he watches you, still scientific in the way he goes about it, but it burns your skin like the kiss of Pyro’s flamethrower.

At first it was a subtle obsession; he would go out of his way to gun you down, leave the killing blow until the last minute and get a little too happy with getting up-close-and-personal to fight you. You had thought at first that it was his revenge for all the times you had sabotage his machines, that this was a normal, if frustrating development.

But then you found the monitoring devices.

You should have probably stopped it right then, told your team about the leak, maybe even whispered into the Administrator’s ear about the break in contract.

But you had been curious, hadn’t you?

You hadn’t known that he had them in all the rooms, even yours.

And now it’s too late; already there is a tape somewhere of your face, your identity, unmasked and waiting for shipping to all the major crime and intelligence agencies in the world. If anyone finds out, from you or not, he will push the button that will send it out.

You lie there shivering on a medical gurney - one of the Medic’s? - waiting for your tormentor to appear. It has already been a week since the first abduction, and he has once again found a way around your defences and been able to subdue you.

The dark and dirty confines of the room remind you of the first time this had happened. The initial confusion and fear of waking in a foreign room; disorientated and immobile. The frantic recollection of the few hours you can remember before falling unconscious, as you test your restraints and fail to find room enough to escape.

You had been taken after ceasefire, which means the respawn machine had been down, but that hadn’t worried you too much. Death never has. What had worried you was the fact that you had been taken right outside your base. When the Administrator announced the end of the fight both based lock down, it is made so that it is impossible for one team to enter the others base.

That means that one of your teammates had to have let them in.

Perhaps a negligent Scout had left the gate open?

Whatever the case, you had been standing by the entranceway, smoking. Lazily watching the curl of smoke as it drifted past you and onwards. Despite common misconception, you only smoke at night, when you don’t have to worry about missing a kill because someone smelled nicotine on you.

The sound of shoes on dirt had alerted you to the presence of someone behind you and you whirled around to the sight of an empty doorway. You had frowned, palmed your knife in your hand as your eyes had tracked the darkness. Your mind had calculated the direction of the sound and you had tensed.

It had been too late. By the time you had sensed the attack there already was a needle sliding through your veins and liquid ice flowing through limbs. Your extremities had gone numb as your vision clouded and you had just enough time to see a flash of blue before you passed out.
That is all you can remember, and frustration seeps through you now, as well as anger at yourself for not being able to respond in time.

But you are professional and you had pressed back the emotions to find the logic in the situation.

You had found yourself in this position before, and you had relaxed, breathing calmly through your nose. It is just another foolish idiot who thinks they can outwit you. You were confident in your abilities to withstand whatever questioning or torture you are about to experience until you can find a way out.

(You think perhaps this is the enemy Soldier’s work, because, although the knot work is decent, you know this is not your equivalent’s style; except… the attack was too well planned… too precise to be someone as loud and brash.)

You had been relieved at the intact state of your balaclava but annoyed at the missing feel of your weapons. You had taken stock of your surroundings and where further annoyed by the lack of directional markers. You were not able to tell if you were in the BLU’s base or not, but if it is, it is a room you had never been in before. And you had been in all of BLU’s rooms.

It had peaked your curiosity, and you looked for any clue as to the identity of your captor. You found nothing more besides a worrisomely-covered table in the corner of the room.
You could do no more but wait (it’s always the waiting that gets to you, and he does have perfect timing, doesn’t he?) but fortunately it wasn’t long until the large metal door opens.

The creaking of footsteps had reached you before the light did, and you had idly tried to catalogue the sound as you would with your own team. As you had systematically crossed out class after class you started to feel worried; it wasn’t the Soldier, or any other class that you had figured would resort to kidnapping.

This is the moment when you start to doubt. When all those little clues and cookie crumb trails lead you back to that one person.

You blink away the recollection, discomforted by the mix of emotions that always come with it.
Shame; for being blind enough for you to have missed the signs, confusion; because you still don’t understand completely, anger; at him and at yourself, and a quiet desolation that creeps upon your mind and sinks into your bones.

You know you will need your wits for what is happening, because sometimes he can be reasoned with, but only if you stay calm enough to insert enough logic into your argument. It is hard though, as you feel the cold, hard metal table beneath you, as your eyes nervously wander towards that telling corner where he keeps his tools.

You can’t seem to think straight; your head is spinning and there is a curious ache in the back of your throat. You know this to be a side effect of his own unique version of an anesthetic, an odd mixture that he had developed when it became apparent that you were developing immunity to the standard Mann Co. stock. He only uses it when he doesn’t want a confrontation, when a fight isn’t what he is looking for… and your heart races as the reason hits you.

He only takes the easy route when wanting to experiment; when he wants you in top shape so that there is less chance that you die. You close your eyes. It is why he keeps a permanent dispenser in the room after all. You gnash your teeth and clench your fist; you think that this time you will kill him, that this time you will escape and rip his head right off his neck; perhaps you will pay him in kind with all the horrors he bestowed upon you. You think of the broad expanse of his back and feel the itch to cut through the flesh and bones until you hit his heart.

You would carve it out, the frozen shrivelled core of an equally cold and cruel man. And what would you do with the pathetic excuse for a human shell after that?

Your fantasy is disrupted by the screech of metal against metal. The door to the room opens and the grey oil lamp is lit. The light glints menacingly off of the reflective glass of his goggles and shades his face under the hard hat. His grin is easy enough to see though, and repulsion curls in your gut. You sneer in response.

“Mornin’, Spy… sleep well?”

He knows perfectly well you haven’t, knows he is the reason you haven’t. Your fingernails dig into the palm of your hands and your jaw tenses before you force yourself to relax. It is these reactions he is looking for and you won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Les accommodations ont besoin un peu de travail,” you say, eyes tracking him as he wanders the room, fingers trailing over the workbench. You are no closer to finding out the location of the room than you were when this first started. And you have tried.

His grin widens, and you have no clue whether that is because he understands you or if it’s based purely on tone. With 11 PhDs you figure he is smart enough to have learnt French, but you know he won’t tell you. He has never spoken it, in any case. He turns away from you to more closely inspect something lying on the coarse table - you would know, your face has an intimate relationship with the rough surface of that bench.

“M’afraid there’s nothing’ I can do for that, sorry.” He isn’t. “But I know of a lil’ somethin’ that’ll cheer you up.” His hand closes around something out of your field of view. You swallow the fear that suddenly creeps up your spine.

“That’s not needed, mon ami, I am sure I will get over it,” you say, eyes straining to determine if this is a new “something”. You aren’t sure if there is anything on that bench he hasn’t used before.

He turns around with a small box.

You are confused at first. It appears to be something akin to a remote, but there isn’t anything in the room that would need the use of one. He sets the box next to your thigh, fingertips brushing the ropes tying your upper legs down.

“Nonsense, it’s the least I could do.”

You are tired of these pretenses. Maybe he finds his words ironic, but you have no patience for false niceties anymore. You turn your eyes towards the ceiling; there is a crack that runs diagonal to the gurney you are restrained to that you have come to recognise by sight.

“What is the point to this, labourer? If it is… la revenge you are looking for, I would think you have had that all ready.”

It is something that has been bothering you for a while. You haven’t had a chance to ask before; he hasn’t given you a chance, with the gags and the knives and the way he smirks at you in a way that makes your jaw clench and your teeth grind and your tongue swell in your mouth so that every word you speak is a torture in itself.

His hand reappears in your field of view, ungloved now, and settles itself on the curve of your throat. His fingers slip under your baklava to rest on your pulse point. You barely stop yourself from flinching. So far he hasn’t seemed interested in taking it off, of exposing you in that way. And yet you never know whether he will uncover you for the sake of rendering you completely vulnerable.

The hand travels across your Adam apple to circle towards the back of your neck. He digs his fingers in your nape and wrenches your head sideways. You inhale in surprise at the sudden motion.

He smells like iron, or blood.

“Revenge? Oh Spy, it was never about revenge.”

You blink.

“Then why?” The words spill out without your consent. At the angle you are at you can’t see his face, but you don’t need too to feel the amusement he directs at you.

“Well… ‘cause I can.”

You aren’t surprised. Why aren’t you surprised? Something inside of you already knew there was no real logic to it. You had caught his attention and now must deal with the consequence. There is something in the back of your mind that tells you this has been going on for quite some time, longer than you have noticed.

How long has he been watching? Waiting for that fateful day after ceasefire?

He lets go of your neck to pick up the box again and fiddles with the buttons and knobs. It takes you a moment to return your gaze to the ceiling. It bothers you he has a way into your base, your rooms, and yet you can never tell until a needle enters your neck.

And you can’t seem to reverse the effect. Oh, you can be invisible it is true, and you have more information on the layout of both bases better than anyone, but you can’t seem to bypass the defence systems after hours.

It is this little detail that keeps you from stopping this once and for all, otherwise you would have already killed him. As it is, the only time you have any sort of control is on the field, but it isn’t a permanent type of revenge, and you can’t take the time you want to.

“Now I need y’all to hold still for this, don’t wantcha to get hurt or anything.”

“If you would let me out of this contraption I would be glad to show you how “still” I can be, you putain.”

He laughs and pats your leg as he walks over to a switch on the wall. It turns on a generator that is hooked up to most of his electric “toys”. As soon as he is not looking you flick your hand in such a way that the small razor that is kept in your sleeve falls. You have come prepared this time. You maneuver your fingers to start cutting away at the thick ropes around your wrist.

The power turns on.

There is a pause as nothing happens, then a faint noise drifts in from underneath you. Soon after that you can feel a high pressure vibration that starts from the base of the gurney.

Arcs of electricity race up.

You scream and scream and scream.

Then you black out.

It isn’t the peaceful darkness of being knocked out. Nor is it the more head numbing effect of drinking until you pass out. It isn’t even quite like the tranquilisers he uses on you when he first apprehends you.

It is a slow choking, as muscles seize and your vision blackens bit by bit. You can’t breathe, can’t think.

It is a mercy when your mind finally blanks and your body relaxes itself back into the table. Light slowly trickles back into your field of view.

Only a minute has passed and you can already feel that you have wrenched your shoulder out of place. The ropes weren’t tight enough.

And you think; oh. That’s what it does.

You breathe in deeply and vaguely notice that your hand is bleeding, cut by the blade that you are still holding. His eyes are on your face and chest, looking for your expression and the way your chest heaves. You press your hand against your pants so that the blood seeps through, it will keep him from noticing.

If you can get your hand free it will only take one quick slash across his throat for this whole nightmare to end. You just have to be patient, wait a little longer, and find the perfect opportunity to strike. The best way to do that is to keep him occupied, distracted. It won’t be too hard; as much as you wish you didn’t, you know how he thinks by now.

There is silence. He has gotten tired of talking and is most likely getting ready for the next step. He has a pattern, the initial test followed by more traditional torture methods. At intervals that are random enough to keep you guessing he will go back to the electricity and record your reaction. It will end with your body or mind not being able to handle it anymore and shutting down.

You will then wake up in your bed, evidence erased and no way to prove any of it ever happened.

At some point in all of this he will probably fuck you.

It is the only point in time that he will free you from the table. By that time you know it will be too late, he is stronger than you and practiced at wrestling things to the ground. He will be anticipating an attack as well, and it will be impossible to get past his guard.

You will either have to strike before that or right after, when he is busy with cleaning up.

He wrenches your head to the side again, pressing his thump deep into your jaw. You try to keep it closed; you want to stall as much as you can, resist with as much strength possible so that you have those extra, precious seconds to cut away at your ties.

He frowns and presses harder, digs his nails in deep. Your mouth opens.

You realise he is checking to make sure you didn’t bite your tongue as he peers down on you. His thumb runs over you bottom lip, swiping at a cut you didn’t realise you had. Blood trickles down your lip.

You bite at his fingers, almost catching his index as he quickly draws his hand away. He smirks at you as he brings his thumb up to his mouth and licks the blood off. He then backhands you with his Gunslinger, making your head snap around and iron floods your mouth.

You snarl at him with bloody teeth showing. Though your arms and legs might be restrained, you are not completely harmless. If he brings any part of himself near your mouth it will be coming off.

“Feisty, ain't'cha?”

He chuckles to himself and brings his other hand to the collar of your jacket while the metal one keeps your head down. He does quick work of your tie and slips his fingers under the buttons of your jacket to run his hand over your shirt. Your skin crawls and you reflectively try to move away from the feeling, only for the hard surface of the gurney to prevent you from being able to.

He pops the first three buttons and drags his nails across your collarbone