Here I stand, sighting him in. My rifle warms in my hands, and the reticule grows, giving off the comforting glow of instant-death. Oblivious, the RED truckie kneels lopsidedly, smithing away at his sentry, whistling happily to himself. I can almost imagine the dreamy look on his eyes, this is his element. It’s almost a shame to interrupt such beautiful indulgence, such…breathtaking emotion…
…bah, who am I kidding?
Bang.
That was the signal. Seemingly out of nowhere another truckie appears next to the sentry, pausing to regard the inert ragdoll (I made it myself) slumped next to it. Almost inconspicuously, his arm darts out and touches the Sentry. Immediately it coughs and farts, before whirring to a stop. The “engineer” is nowhere to be seen when it finally slumps, defeated, as the electrical-sucking-thingimawhatsit does it’s work.
Whaddaya know? The Frog actually did a good job.
Unable to hold down a smirk, I call to the rest of me mates.
“Let’s give ‘em a bloody drubbin’.”
By gee I love this bit.
The air erupts in static as the source bulldozes it’s way around the corner, reams of flame preceding it, Pyro and Doc both clad in incandescent blue armour as they charged into a hail of rockets and gunfire. Our Ivans and Soldiers bring up the rear, adding their own firepower to the mix, drawing all the attention, and most importantly…giving me free reign.
Sighting in, I step out to see the RED Pyro blazing desperately around for our Spy. This one’s easy.
Squeeze, don’t pull.
Bang.
As I eject and slide the next round in, I see our little runt whip out his aluminium bat and charge an enemy Ivan from behind. Impatient little twats, they never take the time to reload. Can’t try to charge this shot, not if I’m to give Runt a chance to survive. I immediately sight in and squeeze the trigger.
Bang.
It’s not enough to penetrate, which isn’t surprising (have you seen the pub brawls the Ivans get in? Weak noggins would never survive those kind of G-forces), but it’s enough. The bat caves Ivan’s face in, and the self-important runt runs off cackling to himself. Ignorant little piker…but I have more important things to shoot.
A RED runt jumps around the corner, gunning for me. Hehehe…perfect. Kicking in mid-air, he changes direction to my right. Nice trick mate! Now I’d like to see you do that again, because that’s all that’s going to save you…
Bang.

Unlucky mate.
Sighting in again, and the battle’s winding down. Bugger. It’s all over, Dustbowl’s ours…again. The seconds tick down on the clock, and a final dirty great head jumps out of hiding, glowing red rockets preceding him in a final desperate bid to gain the advantage.
But what is this?! This is disgusting! Dodgy! Critical rockets are bad enough, but wearing a helmet? What does he think this rifle is, a bloody corked bottle designed to piss off tarts at the Queen’s golden jubilee? Insultin’, this is. He thinks that helmet will protect him? It seems he needs to learn a good lesson in the fine art of getting his head blown off.
He’s even eyeing me as I pull the trigger. Lovely.
Bang.
His body flops to the ground as everything above his neck starts decorating the concrete wall. As with all the others, all that’s left in the crosshairs is a fine pink mist. Lovely, isn’t it? Oh yes.
This is my element.
And it suddenly occurs to me. I am dominating the ugly bugger. And that’s when the laugh comes, of it’s own invoilate will, ripping itself from my throat in a snigger of pure evil delight. Jeez, mate, I love this job.
It echoes through the compound and a “Pyro”, running the wrong way, hesitates as he hears it…and looks at me. Stupid bloody Spies. Time to compare knives.
Splitting the Spy down the middle gets me thinking. You’d think that these blokes would’ve learnt, eh? After all this time, they still bother poking their gobsmackingly large craniums into my crosshairs. Asking to get shot. Maybe I should reiterate it for ‘em? Spell it out. Let them in on a little secret. All in good fairness, of course. They could learn yet:
There is no place that is safe from me.