Flames of Passion

Chapter 4: Smoke, daggers, blood and bone

The first shot was fired before either could react. It went through pyros shoulder, staggering them a bit but not incapacitated. Not yet. A million voices shrieked in their fractured mind, screaming at the pain, screaming to kill, tear, burn, crush all that ever was and ever will be. Engie dove for his shotgun, across the room but it was the only shot they had. Pyro stood there, shaking. Unable to act. Mere moments after the first, the saboteur scoffed and took aim to fire again. Engie now had his weapon, aimed frantically and pulled the trigger, only to find he had never reloaded it earlier. The spy stopped to laugh, a weezy, prestige laugh that was acquired via years of murder and chain smoking. A laugh that was cut short by pyros hand around his throat. Clearly caught off gaurd, the frenchman fired another round into the physco, a shot that punched through their gut and sprayed blood on the suit of the invader. If they felt it, felt any pain at that moment, it was overshadowed by the endless rage of a burning, crazed abyss of a madman long lost to hells grace. One quick snap, and the intruder was gone. This was not enough, not enough to quell the voices that plagued them. One hand still on his throat, the other on his shoulder, and his smug mug was cleaved from his freshly adorned body with such ease it was terrifying. Engie watched in horror as pyro dropped the head to the ground and stomped on it, again, and again, and again. He had no words for what he was witnessing. It was times like this he wished he had never left the farm. A few disgusting crunches later, pyro went and flopped down next to the dispenser, and the machine hummed to life as it slowly healed their wounds. Engie sat himself, the threat now gone, and reach one shaking hand into his cooler for a beer.