1 . Name: D.F. 38 @ 2011-09-11 00:09

Hi, everybody. First time NF'ing. I've done some work on FF.Net, but I could use a more mature audience to do some critiquing. (I wrote "Rosebud", "Wonambi", and "Debuggen'.")

I'm also not sure if this is the appropriate spot for this story. It's not as strong as some of the other work I've seen here, but there is a touch of nastiness to it.

That being said, I hope you like sushi.

---

This had been a long time coming.

The thought had been gnawing in the Spy’s brain for nearly a month. Ever since that Australian rat had first slipped through his fingers, the Frenchman’s mind had been barbed with little splinters. The first plank was full of boiling rage, the urge to kill dal segno al fine. Murder was simple. He could have the Sniper’s death as easily as he could secure alcohol and guns in this country. It wasn’t enough. The next fragment blossomed from the first, but burst into its own shape. Kill him as messily as possible. Don’t even be subtle about it. Let him know how much the Frenchman despised him. Even with more definition, it lacked a taste he craved. It might be amusing to coat the walls of his team’s stronghold with a mural painted from the Australian’s blood, but when he thought more about it, the less appealing it seemed. In the end, blood was a bodily fluid. The Spy didn’t need to sink to the piss-thrower’s level.
The third splinter gave him the direction he needed. Horrify him. Humiliate him. Break him. That sounded perfect. It was open enough so that the Spy could adapt a plan on the fly, but it gave him an end goal. Subjugation. When he could have that Australian at his feet, trembling, pleading, then the Frenchmen would have his victory. Murder was just a possible side effect.

Today, he had been given that opportunity. No, his team was not doing particularly good or bad. That was not important. It was all about the setting. The Administrator had sent both RED and BLU to a location curtly known as Well. It was a fairly standard train station, a location peppered with five control points. The Spy didn’t prefer this mode of combat—if he liked anything, it was capturing intelligence. Still, it was a chance to stretch his legs. Well, something like his legs.

The funny little thing about his prey was what happened when the enemy team lost. Most of the opposing members would try and hide in their safe rooms. Not that it did them any good. His Sniper—his foe—he wasn’t quite so thick. He would run to a hatch towards the front of their encampment and dive into the drains. It wasn’t that he faired any better there, but it was more of a hassle to kill him underwater than it was to go stake the jiggling Russian man-blob on land. His opponent relied on the laziness of the Spy’s teammates to survive long enough for their precious respawn generator to spare him.

That was where Disguise Number Ten would come into play.

It wasn’t that the Administrator didn’t permit him to use it. Frankly, she was amused with what it did. Rather, It was painful to use in most situations. It added about a hundred pounds to his light frame. He’d lose several bones. His organs would rearrange. It wasn’t something he could use without proper support or buoyancy. When he did use it, he had to be near water or his lower body would collapse into a painful, writhing mass. Well’s drainage pipes were not deep enough for his body, but they would suffice for a few minutes. Just long enough.

There was a minute and a half left on the clock. The Spy’s team was close to breaking through the last line of defense in the enemy’s base, but the Engineer was proving to an obstinate distraction. Nothing that the Demoman couldn’t take care of in the Frenchman’s place. He activated his cloak, dipping into the water as a burst of electronics signaled the Scotsman’s success. Yes. Any moment now.

The Spy drew what appeared to be a cigarette case. A cold, black computer screen greeted the Spy with its name—the Spytron 3000. The Frenchman flicked a few buttons on the machine, bringing up the program for Disguise Number Ten. When it was loaded, a cigarette popped into the left side. He drew the item, lighting the tip as another burst rocked the enemy base. Goodness. That Scotsman was feisty today. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drawing its contents into his body. There was a brief coldness in his lungs. Smoke billowed around him, preparing him for the next phase.

Then his legs exploded.

It was excruciating. Every bone below his hips liquefied. Two protrusions popped out from his legs, then two more from his sides. They ballooned in size, fat and tissue plumping him outward. He sank beneath the water, gills erupting like freshly carved slices. Suckers burst beneath the objects that had replaced his legs. It felt like boils popping. If he hadn’t done this a few times before, he might have screamed. Experience kept him quiet, but he still clenched his teeth. It would be over soon enough.

The Spy unfurled at the bottom of the drainage pipe, the transformation now complete. His tentacles, still fresh and tender, rolled along the cement floor. He pushed himself upwards, finding the pipe that lead out of the enemy base. It was just large enough that he didn’t get himself stuck, but it was a tight squeeze. He liked to keep his tentacles spread as far apart as possible, giving himself enough spread to enjoy every sensation that passed by him. Yes, it hurt to become this, but the way the moving water massaged his limbs was almost worth the pain.

He checked his watch and smiled. Five, four, three—

“Victory.”

Oh. A little early. Good for his team.

Screaming was quick to follow the Administrator’s announcement. A cacophony of bullets and explosions followed. The Spy ignored these noises, trying to focus on one type of sound. It was coming towards him. A soft tapping. Then metallic scraping. The duct was opening above him. He could see brown, sharp-toed boots approaching the opening. What a good little Sniper. Right on time.

The Spy shot a tentacle out. He caught the Sniper’s left ankle. With a sharp yank, he toppled the lanky Australian. It was by luck alone that the Sniper’s head didn’t meet with the cement walls lining the duct. He launched three more tendrils, all of which constricted around the Sniper’s extremities. With a fifth, he plucked a kukri off the Sniper, throwing it into the depths. He began reeling the Australian in with the patience of a well-seasoned fisherman, letting his catch wear himself out with his flailing.

As he drew his prey closer, the Spy readjusted his grip. He released the tentacles binding the Sniper’s arms, wrapping both of them behind the Australian’s back. The Spy did the same with his legs, bringing a tentacle around and through the Sniper’s thin thighs. His prey tried calling for help, his cries lost in tiny bubbles. The Spy bore down on the Sniper, the heavy bulk of his body now smothering most of the Australian. Blue eyes darted upwards. There was a feral anxiety in the Sniper’s gaze. Good.

There wasn’t much time. If the Sniper didn’t drown first, then the respawn generator would pick the both of them back up for the next round within a few moments. It wasn’t enough time for the Spy, but he couldn’t be too greedy. He bent down, clawed hands tracing a long scar across the Sniper’s face. He’d left an impression before in less time. He smiled, teeth glimmering like white daggers in the dark water. This could still be fun.

The Spy took the bulkiest of his tentacles. He wrapped it around the Sniper’s body, starting just below his hips. The tentacle dragged across the protrusion of the Australian’s ilium, moving upwards at a snail’s pace. It slipped under his colored uniform, beneath the white cotton shirt underneath that, suckers tracing lean flesh. The Spy smiled as he made his way upwards, following the Sniper’s ribcage as the seams in his uniform split under the pressure from the tentacle. There was coarse, thick hair that traced upwards from his navel, ending at the top of his sternum. The tentacle crossed the final part of its course, the delicate end twisting itself around the Sniper’s well-sinewed neck and hooking around his left ear.

The Sniper lifted his head, trying in vain to bite at anything connected to the Spy. This brought a wicked grin to the Spy’s face. Oh, his little rat was not going to enjoy this next part.

The Frenchman gave an experimental squeeze. The Sniper balked, his body going rigid. It wasn’t enough. The Spy constricted him again, feeling shudders of pain travel along the path his tentacle wound. Closer. He pressed himself into the Sniper, waiting to find the right level of power. He started from the lower part of the tentacle, increasing power until, at last, he felt something give way. Crunch!

The Sniper threw his head back, yowling a mute scream. Deep, crimson blood trailed out of his mouth, hovering above his lips. The Spy had broken the very bottom ribs, the bones piercing the Sniper’s lungs. Not that he could use them right now, anyway. Iron and copper flooded the Frenchman’s senses. He had to have more. He moved more pressure upwards, another pair of ribs cracking. More blood. Then upwards again. More blood. More. More!

He couldn’t help himself. The instincts of this body were too much for him to handle. He tilted the Australian’s head back, exposing the base of his taut neck. Moving his tentacle aside, he found himself entranced by the bobbing bulge in the center of his prey’s throat. The Spy drew back his lips, running his tongue across the tips of his teeth. Yes. That would do. He opened his jaws, finding more elasticity in them than he expected. He closed his mouth around that neck, teeth drawing scarlet delight. He ran his tongue across that bulge. There was a scream lodged there, the Sniper’s voice box trembling. Then stillness.

How disappointing. Already dead? So much for the superiority of the Australian kind. Never the less, the Spy kept bearing down on the Sniper’s body. There was so much blood yet. It swarmed his nostrils, clogged his mind. He wanted more. The animal in him was not appeased. He bit down harder, spilling everything the Sniper had left in his arteries into the water. Everything was red. So much. So rich. Too much.

And then it was white.

When the Spy came to, he found himself back in his encampments. His team’s respawn generator had snapped him out of his trance. He found himself back in a perfectly tailored pinstripe suit, his weapons all fresh and reloaded. No scars from the battle. No more tentacles. No more monstrous thoughts. His teammates went moving on around him, oblivious to what the Spy had done. Hmph. The experience would have been lost on them, anyway.

He’d had his way, and yet, the Spy still felt cheated. He’d only fulfilled his animalistic desires. It was yet to be seen if he had removed splinter number three.

---

“Doc? Is he okay?”

The Medic sat on his haunches, studying the Sniper. He forced an eye open, trying to get the Australian to track his finger. There was a little movement. It was like he was in shock. How very much unlike him. The first week that the team had done this, there was some initial shell-shock and stress. It was long since then. He shouldn’t be like this now.

The Medic gave the Sniper’s face a few pats, trying to snap him out of it. “How strange.”

The Engineer was not as patient as the Medic. He grabbed the
Sniper by the collars of his vest, giving him a few shakes. “Come on, Stretch. Snap outta it!”

“Don’t do zat!” The Medic shooed the Engineer away. “It is probably just a concussion or somezing.”

“This ain’t a concussion, Doc. Pretty sure respawn could fix that.” The Engineer was always too defensive of that machine. The Medic viewed it as a crutch at best.

“Would you stop using zat machine to replace me?” The Medic shot a dark look at the rest of his teammates, all whom were as stunned as the Engineer. “And don’t you all have a point to capcha or somezing? Out! Now!”

Whether it was his fierce demeanor or his seniority, very few ever disobeyed the medic. The Demoman and the Scout were the first to bail out, the Heavy waddling right behind them. The Spy rolled his eyes, and the Soldier was about to start up some grandiose speech about American superiority over German bootlickers, but both were silenced by an angry glare. They left in turn. The Pyro stayed a moment longer, but it was hard to tell why behind those glassy lenses. That left the Medic with an insufferably stubborn Texan.

The two would have come to blows had the Australian not stirred. He gasped, his hands tracing the contours of his neck. No wounds. No blood in his breath. He drew himself onto his knees, folding his legs beneath him. The Medic and the Engineer crouched next to him, both trying to get him to come out of his shell. He couldn’t hear either of them, his mind clouded with his last moments of life. There was a flash of fire from his stomach. He leapt to his feet.

“Sniper? Ya okay?” The Engineer wasn’t sure what to make of this development.

The Sniper threw himself at the supply closet, yanking the nastiest serrated blade he could find. He switched his rifle for an ornate jezail. After blowing a fine layer of dust away, he took out his SMG. Both the Medic and the Engineer were surprised. They hadn’t seen him use that in months.

The Australian bolted out the door. “That two-timing snake is a dead man!”

The Engineer and the Medic stood in awe, not entirely sure if the Australian was right in the head.