These words resonated throughout the corridors via the intercom system integrated within when before the only sounds were a series of a metal tool banging on metal and beeping. Once the echo of the words faded, the metal noise stopped as well whilst the beeping continued on; an instant later, another more silent series of words echoed down the lone hallways:
The source of this mild language was a disgruntled man in his early 40's wearing dark red overalls, a bright red shirt, a glove on his right hand, welding goggles over his eyes, and a hardhat over his head. He was wielding a monkey wrench, which he was using it to keep his machine – a deadly automatic sentry gun with twin barrels and a four-rocket launcher – maintained.
He quickly brought his index finger to his left ear which revealed a small radio apparatus and spoke with a distinct Texan accent:
"Fellas, what's comin' mah way?"
At first he received nothing but static from his minuscule communicator which worried the Texan a bit. But then he received his reply.
''Yo, hard-hat!'' a voice said, "I saw a frickin' Medic with a Solly comin' in while I was on the bridge. I think that they managed to get past our Demo!"
The Texan cursed under his breath: if the Medic and his patient managed to survive long enough to reach him with a charge built…
He spoke once more into his radio:
"Scout, can ya come tah help me out?"
"Can't man," the young voice replied, along with what seemed like shots, "I'm kinda busy showing this guy's who's boss!"
The older man heard a few more gun shots and a faint 'bonk' before the contact was interrupted.
He was getting worried, thus asking out, "Anybody there tah help me out? Soldier?"
Nothing but static.
This time he got a muffled response.
The man calmed a bit and regained his composure.
"Pyro, there's a medic and soldier coming in, I'll be needin' all the help that I can git. Can ya help me out?"
The Pyro responded with a recognizable 'uh-huh' and closed the transmission.
No more than a minute passed before the Texan could hear a series of hurried footsteps nearing him. With a mother-like instinct to keep his death-machine alive, he left to meet the incoming intruders, shotgun in hand.
He turned the corner to see a rocket launcher-wielding man clad in a blue but otherwise facsimile American WWII ranger uniform, his crazed grin the only clear facial feature not obstructed by his oversized helmet. Behind him was a tall and lean man in a lab coat, the blue insignias on his arms designated him as a medic. This Medic – a German – had an unaturally cruel and sadistic grin accentuated by his grey-blue eyes behind his spectacles, and his cannon-like weapon made him appear all the more intimidating. This weapon, the Über Cannon, was sparkling at its exhaust end and expelling a beam of blue aura towards the soldier in front of the medic.
This man had an Übercharge ready.
Upon the Texan's appearance, whatever pleasure or glee that the German doctor had suddenly transformed into confused surprise, probably not expecting his enemy to rush out towards he and his patient. The army-man's reaction was the complete opposite: he beamed at the prospect of removing another obstacle from his path with his rocket-based weapon and prepared to fire it.
The Texan had faster reflexes and shot first with his shotgun. The Soldier grunted in pain and shot his first rocket. It flew past the man in red by no more than an inch and exploded further down the corridor. The shotgun toting Texan put out two more buck shots at the soldier before the German decided to take matters into his own hands and pulled the lever of his Über Cannon.
Both men in blue turned suddenly into a bright metallic blue, their eyes turning to a ghostly yellow colour; they were now invulnerable to any of the Texan's firearms, including his automated sentry gun. Albeit he knew that that this invulnerability would last a mere ten seconds, it would be more than enough to kill him and destroy his sentry nest.
The Medic spoke out to his comrade in a definite accent while gesturing:
"Go to ze Intelligence Room, vee can deal with him later!"
His companion nodded, and treaded as fast he could manage towards the room where the sentry gun and the valuable intelligence which the two men wanted to steal.
The Texan was panicking, shooting more slugs into his enemies in a desperate attempt to distract them long enough to waste their charge to little avail. If he couldn't stop their charge, there would be nothing left to stop them from taking his intelligence. But he realized that he couldn't do anything without support.
Suddenly, before the Soldier could enter the fabled Intelligence Room, he was suddenly blasted away by a powerful gust of air. The Texan's wish for assistance had been granted by the form of a short man in a red asbestos suit and black gas mask wielding a home-made flamethrower: the Pyro had arrived.
The blue Soldier was taken completely by surprise by the Pyro's arrival and when he attempted to react to this new threat, his rockets flew all over, missing his intended targets.
The Pyro kept blowing the invulnerable Soldier away so as to keep both his aim off and waste the enemy Medic's precious invulnerability. Hating being helpless, the Soldier threw away his rocket launcher, opting for a shotgun and began chasing the Pyro while shooting at him. The Pyro retaliated by shooting back with his own shotgun while backpedalling away from the Intelligence Room.
The Soldier pursued the Pyro in rage, leaving his Medic behind.
"Herr Soldier!" the Medic yelled in anger, "ignore ze pyro and help me destroy ze sentry nest here!"
"Stuff it, ya goddamn Nazi!" his companion replied, still following the bait that the Pyro laid, "this maggot has tried to make a fool of me and he will pay!"
The Medic stammered, wasting his last few seconds of his charge, and realizing negotiation with his ally would be both fruitless and time-consuming; he dropped his Über Cannon, losing his faltering invulnerability and took out a bone saw, intent on disposing of the Texan.
The Texan, however, still had his shotgun, and shot two of his remaining slugs into the German, killing him before he could reach striking distance. Dropping his shotgun and taking out his monkey wrench, he turned to help his beleaguered ally.
However, when he turned around the corner, he saw his friend's corpse on the floor, his mask adorned with deep, bloody slashes, with the Soldier standing upon him. The Soldier was injured himself, but his adrenaline rush allowed for him to yell out a war cry and bang on his helmet with a trench tool – the weapon that had finished off the Pyro. He turned back to the Pyro and jeered.
"You cannot kill me, I do not have time to bleed!"
And with that, a mighty crack was heard: a wrench connected into the back of the Soldier's helmet, caving his skull, killing him outright.
The Texan looked down upon his kill and smiled.
"Looks like y'all have plenty o' time now…"
He sobered when his gaze fell on his fallen friend. He took hold of his hardhat and put it on his chest in respect.
His condolences were abruptly turned into a very audible statement:
"Spah's sappin' mah sentry!"
He ran back to the Intelligence Room, grabbing his shotgun on the way. He was met with the sight of his powerless machines emitting sparks due to a small mechanical device clamped unto them. There was also someone in the room: the Pyro, looking around anxiously, shotgun at the ready.
He turned to his friend and frantically spoke in a muffled voice, mostly saying that there was a spy around.
Instead of going to his buildings to repair them, the Texan aimed his shotgun at the Pyro.
"Nice try spah," he said and pulled the trigger.
The shot at first didn't seem to have done anything, but before the second shot rang out, the Pyro suddenly turned into a tall and lean masked man with a blue pinstripe suit which had a noticeable patch of blood on his suit.
The Spy dodged the following shot and responded with two quick shots from his custom revolver. The Texan winced in pain, but maintained his focus and shot once more, finishing off the injured Spy. He sneered, and spat some blood he had in his mouth, realizing that his buildings were now destroyed. He was visibly annoyed, but at least the intelligence was safe and he assumed that he had ample time to set up a new nest.
His train of thought was interrupted when a steel baseball bat connected with his head, breaking his neck, killing him. The Texan assumed incorrectly, and the last thing he heard were the faint words:
"How's dat feel, wimp?"
The Texan suddenly felt weightless, completely free to move anywhere where his heart desired, as well as observe, and what he saw made him feel helpless: it was the Intelligence Room, with three figures; the corpse of the Spy he had killed, his own cadaver with his head twisted in an unnatural fashion, and a young, thin man in his early 20's dressed in a blue track shirt and jogging trousers and shoes. Wearing a cap and headset, the young man smiled as he calmly walked towards a desk with a large red briefcase labeled INTELLIGENCE, playing with a slightly dented and bloodied steel baseball bat.
The Texan wanted to warn someone, to shout out that he had just died and that an intruder was stealing his team's intelligence, but his voice was absent thus none was the wiser of this crime.
The young man grabbed the intelligence briefcase and strapped it on his back as he made his way out of the room. He stopped by the Texan's body, then looked towards the dead blue Spy, and back to his body, his face twisted in anger and revulsion. He held his bat and swung hard unto the dead Texan, bashing the head open, in frustration. "Dat's for Doc," the Texan heard him say. He struck again the exposed head, some blood gushing out. "Dat's for Solly," he continued, much to the Texan's disgust, to one final swing which flattened the skull; brain matter spurted out of any crack or opening in what remained of the Texan's former head. "And dat," the man yelled in anger, "is for our Spy!" and spat unto the cadaver as a final insult before taking off.
The Texan just stared at his remains in complete shock. He had experienced death before, and was, in many ways, used to it by then. He knew that his enemies could be very brutal in the manner in which they killed him, yet he had never seen his enemies gore his already-dead self in such a manner.
He remained in the room watching when he felt as if he was being instantaneously pulled into a new room, regaining his bodily senses, and mostly weight. The Texan found himself back to a very familiar locker room, shotgun in hand, as healthy as he could be, as if he had never been shot, stabbed, or killed before. Normally he would be running outside the room to join his teammates in battle, but he was still shaken from the horrific scene he had witnessed, and just stood in place, the image of his crushed skull spilling his brain matter reoccurring in his mind.
Soon afterward, the intercom came to life.