Be polite. Be efficient. Have a plan to kill everyone you meet.

The sniper adjusted his sunglasses and squinted through the scope.

There was a flash of red in the corner. The sniper caught sight of a BLU Demoman drunkenly teetering along, popping off grenades behind him and occasionally taking swigs from a suspicious brown bottle tucked in his utility belt.

Sniper focused on his bobbing head, and the gunshot rang out with a satisfying pow.

"Sorry about the other eye, mate," the sniper muttered, observing his damage through the crosshairs with a soft smirk.

He raised his head and flicked his hat up, about to reload his gun when he heard a faint creak behind him. He jerked his head over his shoulder and, clutching his kukri tightly, surveyed the room. Nothing.

He paused a moment and held his breath, listening carefully; still nothing. He exhaled and pushed his sunglasses about his nose, relieved that he was alone, but when he went to sheath his kukri he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

Instinctively, he grabbed at whatever caused the sensation with quick reflects and grasped onto what felt like a wrist. As soon as he clutched it, the nothingness began to form into a masked man in a blue pinstriped suit. He wore an especially baffled expression, as if he were appalled by the audacity of the sniper to even dare try and defend himself. In the hand the sniper clutched was a particularly nifty little switchblade, no doubt intended for the sniper's throat.

The spy hastily drew his primary weapon, an ornately engraved handgun, but the sniper jumped up and, still clutching the spy's wrist tightly, kicked the gun out of the Frenchman's hand. It conveniently flew out the small window the sniper had been using.

"Mon pistolet!" the spy cried out.

With his free hand, the sniper took advantage of the distraction and yanked the switchblade from the other man's clutches, closed it (with some difficulty), and shoved it into his back pocket. Drawing his kukri and holding it against the spy's neck, he growled, "Gimme one good reason, wanker."

"With pleasure," the spy snarled, tearing open his suit jacket to reveal extensive wiring strapped throughout his chest. "If I die, you die as well."

The sniper inhaled sharply through his nose, but refused to loosen his grip on the knife. "What if I cut those wires off, and then kill you?" he snapped.

"The only person capable of properly disconnecting these wires without short-circuiting himself is the BLU Engineer. Try it and you're fried, bushman."

The sniper wrinkled his nose. "You're lyin'."

"Hm. Perhaps," the spy purred. "Perhaps not. Kill me now and you'll know for sure."

The sniper squinted at him for a moment, as if trying to prey answers from the spy's expression, but procured nothing. He removed the kukri from the spy's neck. The Frenchman cleared his throat haughtily and rubbed the spot where the knife had been pressed against it.

"It seems that we are at an impasse, mon ennemi," the spy noted, reaching into a pocket within his suit jacket and removing his cigarette case. "I suggest you just give up."

"Like hell I will," the sniper snapped, making his way to the entrance of the room.

"Pardon?" the spy replied, looking up as the sniper slammed the door shut and locked it with a key. "Mon dieu! Since when are there doors that can be locked?"

"Since the concept of creative license, wanker," the sniper answered, pocketing the key along with the switchblade. "You are right in one thing. We're at a bloody impasse. I can't kill you because you'll explode. You can't kill me because you're a useless piker. Nothing to do but sit here and wait." The sniper stalked back to his post and picked up his gun, an undeniable twitch directly correlated to the spy's presence afflicting his left eye.

"And you expect me to sit by and watch as you cowardly attack my teammates from afar, not even giving them the decency to know who it was that killed them?" the spy demanded with flared nostils, bitterly taking a drag on his cigarette.

The sniper glanced over at the spy and raised his eyebrows. "I do hope you're joshing me, mate."

"I am not your mate, jar-man," the spy sneered, crossing his arms. "You and your bottles of piss disgust me."

"Say anything else and you'll be covered in the bleedin' stuff, ya ponce," the sniper responded coldly, squinting through the scope of his rifle.

"I suppose it is some kind of fetish, covering people with your own waste?" the spy mused snidely. "If so, you'd make a lot more money doing pornography. I am afraid your assassin skills are rather lax."

The sniper stood and turned. His expression was difficult to make out past his tinted sunglasses, but the spy was of the assumption that he wasn't quite pleased. The Australian swiftly grabbed a half-filled jar of warm, yellowish liquid and threateningly held it over his head. The spy recoiled in disgust.

The sniper smirked. "What'sa matter? Afraid of a little bit of piss? Don't want to dirty up your fancy suit, is it?"

"I will not apologize for actually being concerned about my appearance," the spy scoffed, straightening his tie poignantly. "Unlike some people."

The sniper sniffed indignantly and tossed the sloshing Mason jar aside. "Don't matter what I look like," he grumbled, turning back to the small window. "Not like anybody's gonna see me up here, anyway."

The BLU spy leaned against the wooden wall, watching the sniper thoughtfully before sucking on his cigarette again. "That is terribly depressing," he concluded after a moment's thought.

The sniper ignored him and fired his rifle at a quick blue blur. Several feet down, a BLU scout's head exploded with a satisfying pop.

"That'll slow you down, ya twitchy hooligan," sniper growled, a smile spreading on his lips. Behind him he heard the spy mumbling softly. The Australian promptly jerked his neck around, worried that the BLU sneak might have had a hidden radio on him—trying to call up reinforcements to save him from the dirty bushman, was he?

"Oy!" the sniper snarled. "What're mumblin' about?"

"I'm counting," the BLU spy answered venomously, as if it was an obvious answer. "You do realize you have sixteen jars of urine up here with you?"

"Why're you counting my jarate?"

"Why do you have sixteen jars of piss?"

"I—I asked you first!" the sniper retorted lamely.

Their spat was interrupted by a fwoop, a crash, and an explosion that most likely ruptured the very foundation of the already unsteady building.

"MAGGOT!" The RED soldier's booming voice was somehow capable of surpassing even the engineers' loudest sentry guns in sheer volume and magnitude.

The sniper sheepishly poked his head through the window. Immediately a bullet from the enemy sniper hit the edge of the window.

"Son of a—!" The sniper ducked back down as the spy burst into a fit of pompous laughter. "Stuff it, spook," the sniper snapped, before peeking his head over the slightest edge of the window.

The soldier was staring up at him (or at least it seemed he was; it was impossible to tell how the soldier saw at all with that helmet covering his eyes) with a sour frown tugging on his face. His rocket launcher, emitting wisps of smoke like the spy's cigarette, was perched on his shoulder. "I HOPE YOU ACTUALLY PLAN ON KILLING SOME OF THESE BLU-BALLED BASTARDS, PRIVATE, INSTEAD OF PLAYING TEA PARTY WITH YOUR JARS OF BODILY FLUIDS."

Another shot grazed the edge of the window. "I am!" the sniper hissed angrily.

"THEN I WANT TO SEE MORE EXPLODING HEADS!" The soldier saluted him, and the teetered off.

"Crazy bloody bastard," the sniper mumbled to himself, scratching his head underneath his hat. "Nearly gave me a right heart attack, there."

"He also blew your cover," the BLU spy drawled, blowing rings of smoke into the air. He casually stepped aside as an arrow pierced the wall only a few inches away from his shoulder.

"Christ!" the sniper exclaimed, gathering up his rifle and pressing up against the wall to the immediate left of the tiny window.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Blue grenades began to fly in through the window. They exploded with an ear-ringing crack upon contact with the creaky, yet oddly resilient wooden floor. In their wake they left charcoal black scorch marks. The sniper did not want to know what kind of marks they'd leave on his body… if there would be any of his body left to mark.

The sniper drew in a quick breath of air and nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to think. Truth be told, he wasn't a good planner. He planted himself in a nest and picked off the ants below. He rarely thought ahead, even off the battlefield; hell, if he did, maybe he'd be living in an actual house.

"Why don't you open the door?" the enemy spy suggested with a sweeping, over-exaggerated gesture towards the exit, using the same tone he might put on if he was talking to a three-year-old.

"Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you, spook?" The sniper laughed bitterly. A rogue grenade landed near the pile of mason jars. The Australian's gut clenched as five jars of urine shattered and soaked the floor with their contents. What a waste.

"So you'd rather sit in here and get blown up then unlock the door?" The BLU spy somehow managed to keep an unusually calm demeanor as grenades repeatedly detonated around him. Granted, they'd all grown quite used to the ear-splitting noise, rumbling sensation of explosions, and the ever-looming threat of violent (yet not-so-permanent) death by now.

The sniper kept to himself, but he at least had some selvage of loyalty for his team. "If unlocking the door means you get to slip away and kill the rest of my team, then yes. I would rather sit here and get blown up."

"And what exactly would I kill them with?" the spy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "My knife is in your pocket and you knocked my revolver out the window."

The sniper patted his back pocket, almost as if he didn't believe the spy. "That's right." For a moment he nearly considered the enemy spy's suggestion, but instead of taking the advice the Australian pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose and squinted at the smirking Frenchman. "Then again, I could just take you out now, with me."

The smug expression faded from the spy's face. "No," he whispered, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

"Why not? I'm gonna die anyway if I stay here," the sniper told his enemy through gritted teeth as he advanced on the spy. He whipped kukri out. "If I've got a chance to take you out, I should take hold of that right now. I'll make sure to stab you in the back, nice and quick, so you know how it feels, too."

With the sniper's back turned to the window, he couldn't possibly have noticed the rocket hurdling through the air, shot by an especially relentless BLU soldier, aimed straight for the spot between his shoulder blades. The spy, however, did.

In retrospect, the spy's next action was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. Well, perhaps second stupidest, if you count the incident with the squid and the underage nun back in Tuscany. Regardless, he wasn't quite sure what he was thinking when he seized the RED sniper by the shoulders and heaved them both out of danger's way. The rocket instead crashed through the door, reducing it to splinters and leaving a gaping hole to escape from.

The sniper was sprawled against the wall, slumped like an especially gangly marionette doll. He gingerly raised his arm and pushed up his hat, which had fallen down over his face.

The spy was gone.