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No. 4833

The metal filing cabinet shuddered when kicked but didn't move even an inch across the floor.

"Scheisse!" BLU Medic slammed the flat of his hands against the unmoving metal. A cold hard slapping sound rang twice around the room and a sharp pain flared across the bared and vulnerable skin on his palms. No luck, the cabinet didn't budge. He lifted his hands to his face and forced them against his eyes. He could feel his own shuddering breath against his exposed wrists and tried to concentrate on it, letting the analytical side take over: slow it down, even it out, deep breaths and even them out. He counted every huff of air across his skin, not even noticing as his legs gave out and he sunk to the floor until his knees were at his chest, and cold stone was at his back.

His hands dropped from his face. One dangled, limp at the wrist, against the floor, and the other folded easily into his lap. Medic turned his head away from the rest of the room: squeezing his eyes shut and cheek soaking up the chill from the wall. His breath was coming at 12/60 Hz. A perfect respiratory rate. What was there to concentrate on any more except the creeping loneliness, and the dark.

- - - - - -

Hello, I'm keeping this short, just a little introduction to my writing and to the story. If it's awful don't hesitate to say soand I'll go back to contentedly lurking. If you like it, I'll write you a nice long chapter tomorrow.

It's 1:30am with me so, if I've missed any spelling or grammar mistakes then I'm really sorry, please don't kill me!
Marked for deletion (old)
>> No. 4834
Oh, you TEASE!

>> No. 4835
Argh! Cat Bountry is my first ever comment on my first ever piece of fanfiction (I don't know whether to dance or cry)!

I suck and don't know how to do that thing where you target a particular comment but if you want more Cat then I'll give you more (just not at 2am).
>> No. 4836
>> No. 4837
Either hover over the post number and click, or just write the post number out with the two arrows beforehand.

Also, POST MORE DAMNIT. I am so very, very intrigued.
>> No. 4838
I am so into this, and it's only a few paragraphs long! Hopping aboard the "WRITE MORE" train.
>> No. 4839
I'd like a nice long chapter plz.
>> No. 4840
Thanks for being awesome guys. I hope that this makes up for the very little that I posted yesterday (If not, it's still not too late to tell me to go away).

I'm new to writing fanfiction, let alone TF2 fanfiction, so if any of you think i'm doing something wrong then I welcome the crit.

- - - - -

"Merde!" The Spy's foot slipped off the narrow strip of concrete and he faltered to one knee as half his right leg was suddenly engulfed in water. He dragged it back out onto the ledge of the sewer, the chill already seeping through fabric and flesh. He was cold, so terribly cold.

Nonetheless, he persevered. Pressing a gloved hand against the slick wall, feeling the squelch of slime and decay underneath his covered palm, he rose unsteadily back to his feet. This time, as he moved, he made sure to never lift a foot too far from the ground. Instead slithering each one forwards in turn across the concrete, searching for holes, or rocks, or particularly slimy bits that could threaten his balance and send him thrashing into the wet and the dark. Just the thought of it was enough to keep him moving cautiously.

Here, in these seldom used passageways, where the sewers sloped downwards, underground, leading to seemingly no where, the lack of activity had stained the world a gooey green, across the floors and ceilings and walls. Spy could feel it building up on his gloves and against the toes of his fine leather shoes, but the dark down here was perilous and it was his only way to move around. He couldn't go back to the routes he was used to. No, the risk was too large. He'd rather deal with the possibility of drowning in this God Forsaken watery grave, than head back where they might be looking for him. If only he could cloak!

This wasn't what he'd signed up for damn it! It was meant to be all charm and stealth and respawn. Not this being hunted, like one of those animals BLU Sniper (did BLU even have a Sniper anymore?) used to shoot for sport.

A splash of noise echoed down towards him leaving Spy tense and transfixed. He was perfectly still and silent. For a brief moment it all seemed achingly familiar. Hiding from the REDs was what he was used to. His hand, working on instinct, snapped to his other wrist, where his watch was still nestled between skin and sleeve. He pressed the button. Nothing happened. Spy plummeted back to the present with a blink and tore the useless contraption from his wrist. His teeth were bared and he lifted back a fist to fling the device into the water. He stopped himself mere moments before he could. Frustration on the inside was one thing, letting it out in loud and prospectively attention drawing ways was another entirely.

Spy jammed it into the depths of his trouser pocket and hurried desperately onwards. His feet kept skidding out from under him; his heart, jolting up into his throat. But he'd catch himself against the wall, haul himself upwards and carry on. He could hear noise. Where were they? Was it coming from behind him? He slipped suddenly sideways when the wall he was bracing himself against fell away. His shoes, as fancy as they were, couldn't find a grip and his feet scattered awry instead of supporting him. The middle of his chest thudded against rock, his hands and head falling inside a deep recess in the wall. He dug his fingers into the concrete, halting his slide towards the water, and pulled his legs awkwardly back underneath him. The wall had not slipped away into another corridor, but, for a reason Spy couldn't determine in the dark, an alcove had been cut out of the concrete at chest height.

"Ah, fuck! Fuckin' sewers man!" The RED Scout's voice rang through the concrete maze, accompanied with the sound of sloshing water. They were too close. Without hesitating another second, Spy pressed his hands against the bottom of the strange opening and hauled himself inside.

- - - - -

"And we're… we're, umm, we're sure that none of them Wankers are left?"

"Oui, zee base is destroyed isn't it. 'Ow could any of zem 'ope to survive zat blast," RED Spy shrugged nonchalantly and took another drag of one of those fancy french cigarettes that he was so fond of. His response seemed to be enough for Sniper who levered himself up from where he was leaning heavily on the kitchen work surface. He stumbled across to the REDs' table, falling (perhaps by design, perhaps just because his drunken legs had stopped responding) into a chair next to their sleeping Demo. Spy watched him sway slightly in his place and make a hazy grasp for one of the many bottles (but the only half full one) that surrounded the black scot.

It was boring down here, the Spy couldn't help but think, though he had felt obligated earlier to join in with what, he hoped, might be the last time that the whole team could just sit around like this. He'd tried to have patience, but now, when everyone was either drunk, or focused on something else, (Engineer telling Heavy stories of his wife and the little one back home he had never seen; Scout and Pyro having decided to check for any remaining BLUs; and a somewhat tipsy Soldier busy proclaiming fictitious stories full of greatness, bravery and plenty of Nazis to anyone who would listen) he felt that the time had come to quietly slip away.

Giving the room a last look, he cloaked and sauntered off. Only a trail of smoke left behind.

- - - - -

BLU Medic slept. Though he'd had no luck forcing the metal filing cabinet in front of the door, he'd managed to shove one of the flimsy hospital wing cots up against it instead. It wasn't perfect, any Heavy (the only Heavy left) could push it out of the way, but he hoped, with him lying on it, that any other REDs who might come skulking back would be unable to move it. Perhaps their efforts would wake him up before they managed to call for back up and break in. He'd like to at least be awake for his death.

He did not sleep easy, though only the walls were there to notice. His hands, even in slumber had forced themselves against his face, finger tips with raggedly bitten nails driven into his cheeks and frowning forehead. Once in a while he'd twitch, or call out, or pull his knees up towards his kowtowed head, but he didn't wake. Even when his eyelids fluttered, his body would still and, by sheer force of will, he'd compel himself back to sleep. Perhaps his Heavy was in his dreams.

Only the walls would know.
>> No. 4842
The parts about BLU Medic are my favorite.

I'm curious as to where this is going.
>> No. 4843

This is very interesting, do continue.
>> No. 4865
I am intrigue. Please go on, sir.

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