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No. 8473
I don't know if it's just luck that hates me or our timing that doesn't work, but I never seem to catch my beta-reader at the right moment, so I tackled Type_Here so she could help me correct this chapter and all. Thanks for helping me out, hun <3
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There’s a short pause as both stare and glare- less than a minute before the Spy slips the undone tie around his neck and knots it in a flash.
“What the fu- ack!” Scout’s sentence dies in his throat when the Frenchman gives the tie an expert tug to tighten it, effectively blocking his airway. Scout’s hands immediately fly up to his neck to pull the item off but the European is faster and raises his hand in the air, pulling so hard Scout fears the tie will chop through his neck. Free head anyone?
The RED hauls the struggling boy up on his feet with the improvised leash, literally hanging him until he more or less stands straight. Luckily, Scout quickly catches on and balances himself on his right foot as much as possible and successfully reduces the pressure on his neck just enough to breathe- or rather hack and cough - before the assassin starts walking off the other way and pulls him along. He doesn’t exactly have the choice to follow or not, trying as much as possible to keep up so he can breathe, his lungs burning with need for oxygen.
Damn Frog...
Even though he’s close behind- too close for comfort- the pressure building up in his skull is still threatening to pop his eyes out any second now and he wouldn’t even be surprised if he had to pick them up after they started rolling all over the floor. He wouldn’t be shocked either from having seen Demoman running after one of his own after a “premature detonation” a while ago.
Scout gives an experimental pull on the leash to see if the man loosens his grip after a moment. His attempt at ripping the tie out of the RED’s hand is oddly weak and he immediately blames it on his lack of oxygen- he ain’t some weak kid, y’know?-
People quickly lose their strength when they can’t breathe, yeah?
But the cold sensation creeping its way up his leg and thigh back clearly hints to the actual cause of it. The blood loss surely has something to do with it too.
Regardless of excuses, there’s not much he can do about it and if there’s one thing he really can’t stand, well it’s coming off as some damsel in distress who can’t even kick a stupid, faggoty Frenchman’s ass. Who the fuck kidnaps people using ties?
Alright, he used a gun at first, but still... a motherfuckin’ tie!
As much as he hates it, Scout ends up following the European. He’s not quite obeying, not yet, but he knows better than to stand there and choke and die.
It’s one damn tricky challenge for the BLU to keep up behind the Frenchman. The Spy is unharmed while he’s got two friggin’ fresh bullet wounds drastically slowing him down, not to mention that he’s taller. Heh, the quickest runner of the bunch barely managing to follow after a walking man, pretty ironic.
Somewhat finding a ‘rhythm’, Scout goes for a breathe-n’-hold method, breathing in when he stands on his good leg and close behind and attempting to exhale when he barely even sets the other down and the tie dangerously tightens around his throat. Spy is completely blind to his horrid limping. Or rather he doesn’t care the least bit.
The Spy leads him into a much smaller and frigid room and whirls around the second he steps in it. His position doesn’t really allow him to look around, but he still manages to check the room out a bit; Small desk in the far left corner, old little chair in the middle back, shelves here and there, something that looks like a closet, a...-gulp- hook?
Spy shoves Scout away from the door before locking it with a loud, sombre click while Scout tumbles ahead and, in an instinctive attempt to stay up, lands on his bad leg which immediately gives out beneath him. Problem is he never makes it to the floor; the Spy is still holding the improvised leash and doesn’t look like he’ll be letting go anytime soon so Scout is just off his feet and unable to stand back up, held up by nothing more than the silk accessory digging into his throat. He can’t help but tense up as the pain in his already throbbing limb flares anew before a gloved hand grabs his shoulder to pull him upright and into a standing position again and twists him around so he’s facing his tormentor.
There’s a bit of blood trailing down from his lip when Scout glares up at the Spy, having bitten it to the point of nearly chewing it off when the pain peaked. The RED stares back before he closes in to the wheezing youth and brings a hand to his face, the burning tip of his cigarette almost brushing against his nose as he whispers a mocked apology, smudging the blood on the boy’s chin. Resting his bloodied hand on Scout’s shoulder, Spy moves his other hand a bit, attracting the boy’s attention to it.
Scout can’t tell where he should be looking right now, his eyes darting from the skinny face to the tie in his first and back at Spy again. One way or the other, the Frenchman is grinning from ear to ear and the only thing he feels could wipe it off his face would be a Sandman to the face.
His thoughts go off track when he notices a certain red bit of silk slip from the Spy’s free, open palm from the corner of his eye.
Scout stares for a long hard second, not quite realizing at first and then attempts a step back the moment it hits him that he’s now free. He almost trips in his hurry and the damn RED’s hand on his shoulder doesn’t allow him to stray very far away, but being at arm’s length away from the freak is better than being nose-to-nose.
The grip on his shoulder is firm, holding him steady and upright while the Spy does a quick scan of his not-quite-free-yet prey, taking in the paler skin and slight quivering. Scout doesn’t notice the man’s digits traveling up to his holster until a certain Ambassador’s canon is pointed at his face, again, gun cocked and safety clicked off, and he grimaces as the RED exhales a cloud of smoke in his face with a drawl.
“Well now.” He begins, taking his sweet, sweet, fucking time, staring back unflinchingly at the wrathful youth glaring murder at him.
“Well what?” Scout barks, hating how ragged his voice is from the treatment his throat has received earlier. Spy tisks him, pulling the Scout by the shoulder into what would normally be a buddy-buddy position, free arm slung over the boy’s shoulders and holding him close, his cigarette nearly grazing the BLU’s ear when he speaks.
“How about a little game?” he proposes, voice exaggeratedly excited before it drops down suddenly into a low, “You’ll love it, j’en suis sûr.”
Scout notes something in the man’s tone that sends a worried chill racing down his spine, a dangerous tinge he’d maybe prefer not having noticed. Or maybe it’s best that way. Expecting trouble is better than bad surprises.
Not expecting it when you’re standing at the wrong end on a gun would be pretty idiotic, though.
“I’d strongly suggest you think your situation over before you answer, boy.” Spy warns, expectantly tapping the gun on the pale cheek.
“Well?”
Alright. Let’s see.
He’s locked in, gravely –if not mortally- wounded and at gun point and yet the only thing he wants to do right now can easily be narrowed down to biting or hitting- whichever hurts more- but whatever is left of logic in the far back of his mind is still yelling he’d probably end up with a bonus hole in the gut.
But Scout’s not as stupid as everyone might think he is. Okay maybe he is, but even being dumb has his limits, and Scout has quick wits when it comes to staying alive. But he’s fucked. He knows it. So so fucked.
Maybe knowing he’s in really big shit isn’t really helping in his case with how his nerves are already starting to crack and his sanity along with them.
“How about fucking no?” He retorts, eyes narrowing. If Spy wants to play the bad guy role, he certainly isn’t going to take the obedient victim part. The Bostonian rears his head some, taking a swing, and spits in the Spy’s face. The boy sure could be a whole lot ruder than the Frenchman gave him credit for.
The RED trades his grin for a glare similar to Scout’s, growling a dangerous; “Mauvaise réponse.”
The gun pressed on Scout’s temple lowers and hovers over his chest for a moment and his first impression is that he’ll be shot in the gut or something, death for dare, but instead the third bullet makes its way in- or rather through his right kneecap- and he heavily drops on the tiles like when he first got shot, but with a much more pained cry followed by a sickeningly pathetic whimper he can’t manage to hold back when his left ankle twists at a painfully odd angle.
And the smug bastard just stands there, watching him crash as he flicks the butt of his damn cigarette away.
“Up.”
The order is cold, but the owner obviously amused. The damn frog is enjoying this, watching from the front row as all he can find the strength to do is try to fight back tears and quivers and unable to stop himself from trembling from the agonizing pain or even breathe normally, face paling as he paints the floor crimson.
Scout gives silence for an answer, suffering and fighting back his mind’s desire to shut down and his body to collapse. His mind can’t process much more than pain right now. He’s slipping away, he know he is. Maybe not exactly as in dying, odd as it may be, more as in exhausted overall. Like he ran seventy miles in the desert without a break or sip of water.
Spy is waiting, growing impatient as the silent stretches on.
“I said up.”
Scout doesn’t budge, his fists balling at the order the only sign he’s still listening to some extent.
The Spy lazily taps the boy in the ribs with the tip of his shoe to coax him into obeying, eliciting a growl followed by a not so surprisingly hateful “...Fuck you.” from the boy who still refuses to make the smallest effort the moment getting up and doing as he’s told is involved.
Spy runs out of patience, a victory for the BLU, and pulls the boy up roughly by the arms, shoving him into a wall then letting him slide down, hard concrete wall scratching Scout’s bare back. Scout half trips over a chair in the process and manages to grab on to it and lands on it instead of the floor, a short lived relief when he finds out sitting either painfully bends his knee or it horribly threatens to cave in backwards if he stretches his leg while his other leg hurts regardless of what he does.
The RED steps back and is watching in amusement, almost curious and pacing around like a predator; his moves feline and silent save for the steady clapping of his shoes on the floor and Scout’s coughing, the sounds overly too loud in the otherwise dead silent room.
Scout is looking down at his legs, wishing a Medic was nearby. Not to heal, but plain chop off his legs and hopefully the Spy’s head along with them. Scout stills still, staring up, still wheezing slightly and growing dizzy from the blood loss. He’s still managing to sit somewhat straight, not wanting to give away how bad he’s really feeling and in fear of falling off the not so steady chair in a dangerously spinning room. Okay, maybe the room is just spinning in his head, but he’s still pretty damn sure the rickety old chair ain’t one bit solid.
Spy walks away while he’s looking down at his seemingly oh so interesting legs, turning his back on the faltering boy.
Walking away?
Scout’s eyes jolt up to watch the retreating man, hoping he really is going out. It doesn’t sound very likely even in his hazy mind even though he is going in the door general direction, but his hopes crash and burn soon enough when he turns to the shelves near the door, apparently looking for something or another. Something glints lightly off one of the shelves, but his vision is pretty much equivalent to that a blind old man- blurry, weird and dizzying and doing everything but help stop the tornado he’s in.
Spy stalks his way back and stands there for a moment, proudly towering over the weakened runner who’s slowly starting to slip off his seat before he grips the sides to keeps himself from falling off.
A renewed smirk twists the Spy’s lips upward; a smile Scout fails to see, head low and eyes squeezed shut to chase away the spinning. He’ll surely see that smile next time consciousness grips him, but for now....
Spy’s arm lifts up some metallic object he’s clutching, booming a laugh as he brings it down with a mocked “Bonne nuit.”
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Spy stands still for a moment, emulating a statue almost to perfection if not for the smirk fading to his usual neutral mask. He watches the immobile boy for a moment, eyes traveling over the bloody mess before him, halting momentarily at the broken knee and more recently bruised temple.
He should feel pity for the boy, shouldn’t he? Oh, he does feel something; there’s definitely this feeling swelling somewhere in there he doesn’t quite know what to call as he observes the unconscious heap before him, but it’s clearly something different. Something much, much better than silly pity or worry.
It’s rather.... enjoyable.
He take pleasure in toying with the boy, proud little thing he is... or rather was, enjoys the power he has over that pitiful little life and relishes in how he decides if the once confident runner lives or dies, suffers, shudders or endures. Surely the boy still has some of that undying pride left in him; he bore that little gleam of defiance in his eyes all along from field to base after all, down to when he struck him unconscious, and the assassin makes it his goal to shatter it and break the boy along with it as it crumbles and falls.
The man eyes the pool of blood that has accumulated below his pray’s chair, raising a fine eyebrow at the mess before tossing the butt of his cigarette near the BLU’s feet. This won’t be very fun to clean up.
Oh well. he shrugs. Better on the floor than on the suit.
Though very enjoyable indeed, his little ‘games’ always seem to end up in him having to clean up a rather impressive quantity of blood unless he wants to endure yet another of his Medic’s ramblings about keeping the place clean regardless of what his job or hobbies required, deranged as they may be. The man is increasingly annoying about cleaning up, and many times has the European considered shutting him up for good, but he had soon changed his mind after seeing the professional standing in the middle of a room splattered with blood, gore and disgustingly unidentifiable bits and finding the same room perfectly clean the next day.
At the time. it made him wonder how many of the rooms of the base had been used as clandestine laboratories since the German’s arrival, but it didn’t matter as long as his personal room was safe from the man’s “medical interventions” and soon, he had installed extra locks to his door to make sure it didn’t happen. Both professionals knew about the other’s activities and he had easily convinced the man in keeping silence about this with witty arguments and threats of blackmail. Not very many Medics allowed such activities and even less are interested in this kind of thing, so he might as well keep this one alive.
Perhaps even borrow a tool or two for his own ‘patient’ next time.
The Frenchman reaches for his breast pocket as he puzzles over this. He pulls out his cigarette case and extracts one before taking a few thoughtful steps around the knocked out BLU. Now that the boy can’t walk, maybe he should give some attention to parts of his body other than his now useless legs.
Maybe his arms... Or his jaw perhaps? Yes, that sounds good. Unhinge or break? He’ll decide later. After all, the room itself is full of inviting possibilities. Hanging hook, desk and shelves full of various objects...
With that in mind he walks off, leaving his bloody plaything behind with a sinister puff of smoke.
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Back with my usual 'English isn't my first language and I'm really sorry if some parts are wonky or weird'. I try to keep things as clear as possible, but learning English by myself also means I occasionally experiment with sentences and words and hope it turns out alright haha.
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