Hi there you silly, delightful people. You may refer to me as Coffee, I suppose, or whatever pleases you (Hell? Just like metropolis! It’s funny ‘cause I’m a robot) and up until now I have just been a grade A top notch lurker. But not today!
I’m actually a screenwriter by trade, or at least I will be when I finish school (it’s my major). I have not written prose in a looooooong time, but I found myself missing it. So forgive me if I’m rusty. I did my best. Also, proof reading is not one of my strong skills, as I generally seem to be pretty sharp on the first go (not to mention that screenwriting is a lot less grammatically demanding). So if there’s something blaringly obvious that I have missed, feel free to point it out or fix it in your head. Either way, it’s all good with me. Crit always welcome.
There is an awesome mock movie poster floating around the interwebs titled “Blue Spy Must Die.” This piece has nothing to do with that. I tip my hat to that artist. That being said, who’s ready for some angsty-ness? Drop anchor from the SS Moody- Feels ahoy!
RED SPY MUST DIE
Life here was an exercise in futility. Both teams had long ago discovered the meaning of their employment- charged to fight for a couple worthless patches of land for a pair of rich elderly men who had never grown out of a sibling rivalry. And they knew it was all a charade, that each point captured, each payload delivered, all intel captured, meant nothing. At the end of the day, the week, the month, the year, nothing would be different, the two teams would still be locked in an unchanging stalemate, strung along by that woman and the dubious forces at work behind her.
Each team and its members had gone through the phases of coping and acceptance; denial, anger, bargaining, depression. Sure, it was just a job, but to discover the tasks they had been doing so long, the life they were living, were stuck here living, was meaningless, hit hard. But they stayed, and they performed. They could keep playing the charade. It paid well, and it wasn’t like all of them could just walk away. For some, like the engineer, families had disappeared, gone without a relocating address, since he had left. For others like the sniper, they were wanted men, bought out from governments at high prices by the affluent brothers. For some like the soldier, there was simply nothing else.
On a wooden wall in the RED base, “somebody” had graffitied the phrase “Everything is pointless”, a sentiment written with fire, scorching the letters darkly and deeply into the boards. They had all expected the soldier to corner the pyro, harassing him about respect and dignity, bullying him into finding a way to erase what he had done. But he did not. Perhaps more haunting than the burns on the wall were the sounds that came from the soldier’s room that night, sounds all of them pretended not to hear. A low, muffled sound, like a sob, coming from a man who wouldn’t wince while stuffing his intestines back into his abdominal cavity.
That had been a year ago. They had moved on since then, settling into a semi-permanent state of coherent melancholy. That wasn’t to say the lethargy was without respite- times were had that were enjoyed by all, spirits were lifted, things felt right. This could go on for weeks at a time before they all settled back down into the desert dust.
The red spy would not describe himself as a good man. He was not a good man or a moral man, and these things he regretted from the bottom of his heart. He was just a man, living here in the desert, doing things, violent despicable things, because a woman, somewhere far away, told him to. He was not a good or moral man, he was not a learned man, or a well read man, or a wise man, or a particularly special man. But his mind ticked constantly with these grave, introspective thoughts, as they twirled with him, around him, on the battlefield by day, and he painted them all over his ceiling at night.
His decision was not a decision that was made after considering all points of all sides of an argument, weighing the pros and cons, preparing for either route. This decision was made as many of his were, following his instincts and his heart. It all happened with the coming of the Sunday mail.
There were two letters, bundled up in the same bulky envelope. One was addressed as if to be sent on its own, “Mr. Renauld ____ , P.O. Box 78345, _____ District, New Mexico, _____” all written out in her distinct elegant handwriting. The other just had his name. Curiosity always being a deciding factor for him, he ripped open the unrecognizable letter first, and when her ring tumbled out onto the desk with a musical ting, his heart crashed through his ribcage, through the floor, and right into the engineer’s workshop downstairs.
The letter was written plainly but decisively, and graceless hot tears in increasing velocity ran down the bridge of his nose to plop down on the paper, smudging the cheap ballpoint ink it was scribed in. It described the events of what was now three weeks prior. Written by a kindly neighbor, it described the incident that happened outside of their building, how she was there in the wrong place at the wrong time, how she was caught in the cross fire, how she died on the sidewalk while the ambulance was on its way, her groceries strewed beside her. The neighbor held her hand and she asked for him in her final moments, him, Renauld, and said how much she loved him. The neighbor had found her letter on the kitchen counter and along with the ring, had sent them along.
Her letter was simple. It spoke of her being well and hoping he was the same, how she was learning to cook a new dish she wanted to make for him, how she loved the spring and how beautifully the begonias in her windowbox were coming in. She missed him and she loved him. She hoped to see him soon.
The red spy had been with a great deal of women in his life. Some were memorable, many he had forgotten, some tread the line between occasional remembrance and disappearing completely, only recalled at certain moments after certain things were said or done. But only one could be described as a soulmate. Up until her, the spy had never believed in such melodramatic things. She was different. They hadn’t known each other long, only a year and a half perhaps of frequent letters and occasional meetings. They had plenty to talk about, sure, but the silences were just as meaningful. They were comfortable- and it was as if the air between the two of them buzzed- with passion, yes, but also with something so much deeper.
“I know you”, the air seemed to whisper. “I know you too,” was the answer back.
Shaking violently, he put his face in his hands and he cried. She was gone. He cried through dinner and didn’t stop when somebody banged on his door sometime after. She was gone. She wouldn’t write any more letters, come for any more visits, be there when this “war” was over. They couldn’t buy that house together, a little white one in the French countryside, living off his checks from Reliable Excavation and Demolition, watching her begonias blossom and growing old and grey together, still smiling like the day they met.
A familiar phrase floated into his mind. “Everything is pointless.” He had been walking by that maxim on the wall almost every day for a year, and now, it meant something to him.
At long last, his tears dried up and he could cry no more. He lay on the floor, just breathing as if oxygen was a gift. From the crack of window visible under the blinds, he could see that it was now deep night. Who could say how long he had been there. His entire body aching with sorrow, he propped himself up on his elbows, then sitting rag-doll-esque on the floor. From there he slowly stood. He picked the pretty little ring from off the desk. It was silver and inset with turquoise, a combination he knew she would enjoy, and he was right. It was a tiny little thing, but after some careful trying and twisting, he found that it fit nicely on his little finger.
He went to the mirror and looked at himself. A strong chin, sharp nose, thick hair. He looked like a broken man. And in that moment, he made his decision.
His balaclava hung by the glass pane. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore. Secrecy now was pointless- he no longer had anything to hide. He had made up his mind, and if Reliable Excavation and Demolition, Mann Co. or that abrasive administrator got their hands on him, he was a dead man. He had a very slim chance of survival, he realized. It didn’t matter to him anymore. If they didn’t kill him, the cigarette he was putting in his mouth would.
He changed out of his red suit, carefully hanging the jacket and pants as not to crease them as if it were any other day. He selected a different suit, rarely worn, grey, with no vest. He put it on, made sure he had everything he might need; his gun, his knife, his disguises, his watch, his picks, other dubious trinkets. A briefcase. He did a visual sweep of the room, checking for forgotten items. Her letter. He stuck it into his suit and made to leave.
It occurred to him that he should leave a note, so he did. He taped a piece of paper to his door reading “go the hell away”. He locked his door and made off for his destination. It would buy him a little time, he thought as he walked away, before the others realized he was simply missing.
He had never seen what he was looking for. None of them had, not even the engineer or the medic. It was top secret, but the red spy knew these lands well. He knew where just about every secret was hidden, even if he hadn’t seen the secret himself. And just a day earlier, the descent down that long, long spiraling staircase far down into the deep cold earth would have filled him with anticipation and excitement. Now he felt nothing. He cracked the vault doors and went inside, helping himself to Mann Co.’s most precious secrets.
“And so it begins,” He muttered to himself, pulling what he needed out of the cabinet and shoving it into his briefcase.
He hadn’t told any of his teammates about his plans, nor had he told them about the letters. Perhaps if he had, the administrator’s mission for the day wouldn’t have come as such a shock. “Defend the point!” She would demand, and they would do it and nothing would change. “Deliver the payload!” she would order, and they would do it and nothing would change.
Today the administrator’s demands changed everything.
The P.A. system crackled loudly and the teams barely shifted in their seats at the breakfast table to listen.
“Today’s mission,” the woman began to bark through the tinny, electronic speakers. Eggs were still being shoveled lazily into mouths, coffee was still being sipped languidly. Today was to be the same as every other day, as the thousands of other days that had come before this one. Nothing changed here. At least, that’s what was they believed. And then the administrator gave them their mission.
“Terminate the red spy.”
Nothing would be the same.
I am intrigued and wish for you to continue. Also I like your writing style.
Normally I avoid tragedies like the plague, I have a massive case of Angst Aversion.
But I have to say, this was very beautifully written. Your writing style is fantastic.
I especially loved this line:
“I know you”, the air seemed to whisper. “I know you too,” was the answer back.
So short and simple, yet so meaningful. Love it.
My only criticism is that I find it awkward when the companies and classes are not capitalized. Even though "RED Spy" is not the guy's real name, that's the moniker we know him by; same with all the other guys.
You have my attention. Please carry on.
Picky detail: It might be better to say "A great NUMBER of women," instead of "a great deal." Deal goes better with a substance rather than individual things.
A great deal of peanut butter.
A great number of jars of peanut butter.
The moment the ring fell out of the envelope, my eyes started being all wet and stuff. Gosh darn I wanna see more.
I felt the same thing about capitalisation, though. If it was deliberate, it was probably to accentuate the fact that the classes aren't incredibly important individuals, and that they're actually just humans with titles. Anyway yeah, love it
Hey there tf2chan. Remember me? Probably not. Alrighty.
I started this story back at the beginning of the summer, and I was really into it, and it was going to be this really fun way for me to get back into writing prose. Well… the unspeakable happened, and shortly after I posted the first part, I got a job, rendering me incapable of doing anything else the entire summer. Seven days a week will do that to you.
It was kind of cool though, I worked in a hardware store with a bunch of quirky, socially awkward men and one lady. Yes, it reminded me of that too. I even started dating one of them. Yay.
So here’s the next part, fuck proofreading, it just feels good to write. I hope you enjoy.
It was as if the administrator had told them all a joke. The speakers crackled, her voice came on the air, and instead of her usual orders, she had told them a joke.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” asked the administrator in this hypothetical situation, before pausing a second and answering gleefully, “To get to the other side!”
And nobody laughed. In fact, nobody said anything. They just sat there, confused, unsure how to react. And this was the way it was when the administrator ordered the death of the red spy.
“Vas?” Said the Medic finally, yellow bits of half chewed scrambled egg tumbling down his chin.
A few moments later found the Scout dashing down the hallway to the Spy’s room. It was away from the main dormitory area, down a dark little hallway, past a storage closet and an unused bedroom and was the last door on the right. Scout came to a halt as he always did, heels digging into the wooden floor, before yelling out and reaching out his fist to pound on the door.
“Yo! Spy! You in there? It’s me, man, open up! I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise! Just wanna know what’s up!”
He waited for a second, listening.
“You alright? Want me to get doc? Seriously man, what’s going on?”
He stared at the door, then pressed his ear to the wood and listened. It was silent.
“Uhh… okay, how about… knock once for yes, twice for no, or some shit like that. You in there?”
There were no knocks, and the longer Scout pressed the side of his head into that door, the more he began to suspect what he had known all along- the Red Spy wasn’t there. Not being one to give up so easily, he tried the doorknob. It was locked fast and would not give despite how he insisted. He backed up, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and slammed his body into the door, expecting it to fly off its hinges. Things did not go according to plan. Current situation notwithstanding, he still checked to make sure no one was looking as he picked himself up and ran back to the mess hall.
“Spy ain’t there,” he announced, skillfully skidding in between a countertop and a table.
“How do ya know?” asked the Demoman, “It’s the Spy, lad, he could be anywhere.”
“I dunno man, I just know.”
“Well, why would he hiding in his quarters?” Chimed the Medic, “It’s too obvious, zat’s the first place we’d come looking for him.”
“Ah, tha’s true.” Admitted Demo. He topped off his coffee from a flask and muttered something about a long day.
“If little man is smart,” said the Heavy Weapons Guy, who was still wearing his ill-fitting reading glasses, “he is long gone by now.”
The Engineer scurried in at this moment, clutching a trailing bundle of papers, which he tossed onto the table and hovered over predatorily.
“They’ve cut him out of the system, fellas!” He announced, “He ain’t in respawn anymore, somebody kills him, that’s it; he’s playin’ for keeps!”
A stray paper had fallen loose from the bundle. The poor Pyro, looking less like a man and more like a gas-masked puppy, picked it up and whimpered.
The Sniper had not said a word all this time, staring stonily ahead into his coffee from behind those aviators. Now he looked up and across the table at the Pyro, reaching over to pull the paper from his hands.
It was an executive order straight from the top- faxed and printed so there would be no excuses for not receiving demands. ‘TERMINATE THE RED SPY’ It read. ‘AUTHORITY HAS BEEN GRANTED TO USE WHATEVER MEANS OF FORCE NECESSARY. TARGET IS CURRENTLY CLASSIFIED AS THREAT LEVEL 3. CODE 14A5BD9F’. It then went on to describe details- of both the order, and of the Red Spy, leaving nothing a mystery regarding the enigmatic man. All of his details were listed there; his name, his birthday and birthplace, his height, his bloodtype- there was even a pair of pictures included, the spy with his mask on, and off- everything necessary, and totally unnecessary, to aid the mercenaries in the hunt for this man.
The Sniper said nothing, and handed the paper back to the sad Pyro.
“Well… What do we do?” asked Scout.
Demo took a long gulp of his coffee. “There’s no easy answer to that, lad. This is not a situation we’ve ever come across before, and I don’t think they teach you this one in the books…”
“She can’t really… expect us to kill him, can she?”
“Yes,” growled the Heavy.
“You can’t be serious!”
“Employer gives order. You follow the order. Is the way it works.”
“But don’t you want to know why?” Asked the doctor. The Heavy fixed him with a steely look.
“Is not time for science, doctor.”
“Nein, forget science. You would kill a man without knowing why he was guilty?”
“I know he is guilty because our leader says he is guilty. Is part of contract. They command, you follow. Unless you would break honor, doctor?”
“I would break honor a thousand times if it meant I was able to ask questions!”
“Spy has signed contract just like the rest of us, whatever he did, he knew better.”
“But I doubt it is worthy of a punishment by death!”
“You break the rules, you must pay the consequences! That is the way!”
“We are not in Soviet Russia, commerade!” Yelled the Medic, his perfect curl coming undone.
“Whoah, fellas, let’s take a step back now,” the Engineer butt in, cutting off the now red faced Heavy, “tensions are real high, I know, this is a… strange situation to say the least, but let’s try and keep it civil. …What do you think, Solly?”
While the Soldier was by no means what any of them would call “sane”, they had seen him change over the last three years. Coming in as a raving lunatic who collected heads, he was now more of a collected maniac- one that the team found themselves looking up to over the years, because there was protection and loyalty in all that crazy. His disgusting hobby had been replaced by a socially acceptable one after the yearly cleaning crew had come in and found his mouldering box of heads. One lawsuit and a mass disinfecting later, the Soldier had taken up the surprising pastime of gardening, and he could often be found on a little patch of land behind the fort, on his hands and knees, howling at his tomato plants that they were not worthy of the ground they grew on. His garden did surprisingly well for New Mexico.
Soldier cleared his throat, wiped his face with a napkin, and stood up. He removed his helmet, revealing his now graying temples, then put it back on, then took it off again.
“Men…” He began, “Part of living is coming face to face with tough decisions you’d rather not make. They are unavoidable. They are part of life. Cowards will run away, but we are not cowards! We are men! And today, we will all make a decision.”
“We do not know why the Spy has been sentenced to death by our superior. Perhaps we never will. But as the Heavy has already stated, when we all took on these jobs, we signed contracts. We knew what we were getting into. It has not been easy, and I know there is not much choice for some of us… But a job is a job and an agreement is an agreement, and when you break that, there will be consequences! And Spy knows this. He will be expecting us to come for him, and we will be breaking our contracts as well if we don’t follow orders.”
“However, we have spent three years together, fighting together, eating together, living together. We are a team, and more than that, we are all brothers. Would you kill your brother because you were ordered to? I don’t know. You have to decide that.”
He fell silent, and stared into the empty bowl of his helmet cradled in his hands.
“Dismissed,” he announced quietly, and when nobody left, he took it upon himself to leave.
The blue base, while certainly perplexed, was filled with a lot less emotion that morning.
“What do you suppose that’s about?” Asked their scout, a blonde kid from Midwestern farmland.
“I don’t know, but it’s about freaking time,” cackled their pyro, a cruel, malevolent skin head who had given up on his flame thrower in exchange for a squirtgun full of kerosene and some matches.
Only the blue spy felt the cool wash of concern.
“Mon frère,” He murmured, “Qu'avez vous fait?”
I'm surprised no one has commented on this yet, I love what you've set up so far, and I like what you did with each team member's reactions to the mission. I will eagerly await to see what happens next, but take your time if you need to, of course.
I concur wholeheartedly! Very well put together, this - we want to see more!
AHAHAHA!!! BATTLEPOPE!!! OH MY GOODNESS YOU JUST MADE MY NIGHT!!
Are you referencing the comic? Oh man... I haven't thought of that in so long. :D
The Engineer, like the Medic, was a man who also always needed to know why.
However, unlike the Medic, who could end his evenings with a “Nicht Schlect, I will finish tomorrow,” turn off the lights and go to sleep, the Engineer could often be found wandering the hallways at 3 am in naught but his undershirt and shorts muttering to himself about torque.
Which is why it would have surprised no one to find him outside the Spy’s door, trying to pick the lock.
The Spy himself would have laughed at the tool he was trying to use. Instead of the slim, elegant silver lock picks the Frenchman kept in his coat and behind his tie, the Texan’s device looked more like a clunky toy, better suited to make believe than to actually be any real use. He had designed it himself, of course, after seeing one of those secret agent flicks in town with the boys, but never thought he’d really get to test it out. And here was his chance.
The movie made it look so easy, he came to realize, after kneeling on the floor for what seemed like fifteen minutes. Of course, the English fella’ seemed to be able to do anything easily, and he probably would be the one to build the special gadgets anyway.
Engineer was about to give up and just rip the doorknob out of the door with his robotic hand when he heard a click. He turned the knob, and the door fell open. The room was dark, the lamps were off, the shades were drawn.
“Spy…?” Called Engie, stepping into the room. He knew the Spy wasn’t there.
“You in here, Spy…?”
He wished he was.
He closed the door behind him and flipped the light switch. A lamp came on, illuminating the room. He had only been in the Spy’s room a couple of times, and the level of disorganization was unfitting. The closet door had been left open, clothes un-put away, things had been knocked off the desk and bathroom sink in a manner that suggested rage or disorientation. Spy had clearly left in a hurry.
The first thing to catch the Engineer’s attention was the red balaclava that hung by the sink. He had never seen one without a spy in it. He lifted it, thumbing the soft fabric in his good hand, and wondered if the Spy had multiples, or if he was out there, for the first time in three years, with his face naked to the world.
Engineer continued to paw through Spy’s room, looking for anything, anything at all, that would help him make an informed, logical decision. The crumpled red suit on the bed yielded nothing, and neither did the closet. He looked through all the items that had been tossed to the floor, but none of them suggested anything. It wasn’t until he kicked over the dust bin that there, between the cigarette cartons and abandoned catalogues that he found the letter.
It was the letter from her neighbor, and the Engineer held his breath as he read it. The paper was riddled with Spy’s tears and some of the words were unreadable, but the Engineer got the jist of it. His heart clouded with sympathy and whatever the Spy had done, Engineer now knew why. He had to find him. Now.
He couldn’t explain why he chose this spot. This spot, right here, in the hallway, to sit. It was always this spot, whenever there was something on his mind. It wasn’t like this particular stretch of hallway should have been able to help. If anything, one would have thought the opposite. And yet, “everything is pointless” stirred a thought at the back of his head that never seemed to quite break through. If it ever did, it was likely that everything that had ever happened would make sense.
Too bad he’d taken one too many blows to the head for that to ever happen, many of them by his own hand.
The Soldier pulled his knees up and leaned forward to rest his arms on them. His lungs, cavernous from years of screaming, filled with air and then released it all. He stared out from under his helmet at the words, but really at nothing, his head empty now. For all his noble words about decisions and cowards, he was having a hard time coming to one himself. There were too many options to weigh, too many questions, too many memories…
She was watching him now, he knew it. Somehow, through her wicked indecipherable technology that the Soldier didn’t quite understand, she was able to watch him at all times, whether he was lecturing the others at the breakfast table or pleasuring himself in a fox hole, and she liked to make sure he knew it. And surely, she was going to be mad that he wasn’t running down a hallway with his rocket launcher looking for his illusive team mate.
But Solly didn’t care.
He was letting his face sink into his arms when he heard footsteps approach. He looked up.
“Mmmr?” asked the Pyro gently, “Murr mmmph?”
“Oh, it’s just you, son,” said Soldier, “…yeah, I’m okay.”
Pyro sat down next to Soldier, who grinned crookedly over at him.
“It’s a… strange mission we were given,” Muttered Solly, voice strangely quiet.
They sat in silence for a while. Neither of them minded.
Please do go on, I am fascinated and must know more.
Wow, I love this. Looking forward to the rest.
Hola Chicas. Here's part four or something. For the record, in case you do get what I'm going for here, none of the dates match up at all. I don't think anybody is going to care, but just in case someone out there is really on top of their game, or always over thinks things. (Like I do.) Yaaaay. Enjoy.
In the highest room of the base, the convict paced his room restlessly.
It wasn’t very much of a room. It was more like a covered balcony, walled in on three sides and open at waist high on a fourth. But it suited him just fine, he liked it that way, with a perfect view all around and two ways to escape- through the hatch on the floor or out across the roof. When he didn’t sleep here, it was in his van, open on all sides and with an engine under him.
Unfortunately, the man had a bit of a reputation for being paranoid, but nobody could blame him. Though the entire team couldn’t put a status on his innocence either way, they’d all heard the story. Wrong place at the wrong time, that’s what it was, and the headlines the next day read “DALLAS POLICE DETAIN FOREIGN ASSASIN”.
The way his face sat as he muttered through this yarn was enough to tell it all.
Reliable Excavation and Demolition had given him a deal. Just sign this contract, they had said, you’ll work for us, you’ll be free of this mess. We need you.
Of course he’d signed. He signed for his freedom. He didn’t read the details, he didn’t care. And RED bought him, a little better than an indentured slave in a foreign country. “Five years”, it said in the fine print.
Working in Europe had gained him quite a bit of notoriety, and RED was keen to capitalize on that, he who “never missed”. But they weren’t the only ones who heard, which made him all the more likely when the feds caught him walking downtown looking for a hotel. He had alibis, he had plane tickets, he had strongly worded opinions, insistences that he didn’t kill good men, but nothing worked. They had shoved him in a little cell as the whole country angrily demanded to uncover his identity. His fate was sealed. Guiltless, he was going to die a shameful death at the hands of a furious nation.
And that’s when she came in, escorted by a steely guard and a man in a suit, she peered at him through thick, gaudy glasses.
“Mr. Mundy, my name is Eliza Pauling, and I’d like to offer you a deal.”
She offered to get him a lawyer, to let him mull it over, to read the fine print to him herself, but he was insistent. Taking the pen in his scarred, dirty hands, he quickly scratched L. Mundy, and handed the sheet back. She took it, gazed over his signature for a second, then smiled at him, a disarming friendly smile.
The steely guard unlocked the cell, cuffed him, and escorted him to a dark van. The woman got in first, and he was pushed in next to her. The door slammed.
“Take us back, please,” she chimed to the driver, who nodded and started the ignition. As they pulled away, the woman produced a cuff key and freed his wrists.
“Mr. Mundy, at Reliable Excavation and Demolition, we don’t care what you may or may not have done. We’re just very glad to have you on.”
Still in shock, he nodded, and as he turned to look out the window, he didn’t notice the needle piercing his skin. He woke up in New Mexico.
And that was the story of how Reliable Excavation and Demolition paid the US government for one of its most controversial criminals. Shortly after, the feds picked up a fall guy. He was dead within the week.
Sniper still didn’t know why he kept that article. It had run in the Teufort Times, and he came across a copy within his first days here. Looking at it made his insides burn, which is why he kept it under the cot, in a shoebox, where most men kept their porn. He wanted to hand off the box to Pyro, and watch it go up in flames, but he couldn’t let it go.
And here was Spy, that bastard Spy, running around doing god knows what. Spy didn’t have any conflicts, nobody watching his every move, he was the spy, how could they? But the team needed a spy, or they needed him dead. It was part of the contract, part of his contract, part of something bigger that was happening right before the Sniper’s eyes, and he wasn’t going to have any of it. Spy was endangering the job. It had only been three years- his contract said five. And if the spy brought down everything now, Mundy was back to the wolves, nowhere to go except prison or his grave, and what was he doing if he wasn’t going to fight?
Sniper and Spy had never gotten along, but the Spy knew his story. And the more he paced, the more he thought, the more he let that old anxious fear set in, the more he felt that spy was doing this to spite him. To spite them all. He didn’t care about the Sniper, facing prison. He didn’t care about the Soldier, with nowhere to go. He didn’t care about Pyro, who finally found a family. He didn’t care about any of them.
And now, emotions spinning out of control, that old feeling came back to him.
He just wanted to go home.
Breathing heavily, he grabbed an empty jar and hurled it at the wall, little bits of glass cascading over his bed. He wiped the angry tears from the corners of his eyes, grabbed his best rifle and kicked open the hatch. He’d be damned if he was going to lose this job.
Maaan, I forgot to format. My apologies to everybody's eyes.
I really like your characterization of Sniper.
Why thank you! :D I was worried it would come across as a little too heavy handed but I'm glad you like it. SUCCESS.
Good stuff, Coffee. Good stuff. Let us know what stuff you screenwrite, so we all know to watch it :D
(...is screenwrite a verb? I don't care.)
Awww, widdle Snipper. Widdle Soldier. All of them. Awww.