just storing wip here
He knew when he woke up that the Administrator did not accept his offer.
His head was pounding, and when he stands from the hard floor he reels. There was something sticky, no doubt blood, making his balaclava cling to the side of his temple. He hopes the red doesn't bleed through the blue. It was a pain to wash out. It's one of the negative points of being a BLU, the stains showed more on his nice suits.
The REDs don't suffer that problem. The most satisfying thing about killing Engineer was when a revolver bullet went through his head, and some blood got on his bright yellow construction hat, or it got on his wrench, or any part that wasn't already red. Like a marking, a sort of badge of shame. The REDs covered it up, the BLU wore their wounds proudly on their sleeves, aggressive and foolhardy and stupid. It was a trait of BLUs, always the attackers. They rarely had anything to lose; they liked to take risks. REDs were the turtlers, the defenders. Losses hit them harder than BLUs, who have little to begin with except a bomb and a suitcase full of intel. For the ones with the more advanced looking base, Spy always wondered why they could not simply invent a cart that pushed itself towards the REDs little barn.
Spy's movements were slow and measured. Despite the massive headache and possible concussion, he was trying to take everything in; he was in bare room, and the Announcer has still afforded him the dignity of his balaclava and suit. A quick pat informed him that his revolver and butterfly knife were predictably gone. His disguise kit is there, but pulling it out and opening it just reveals his fags and a lighter.
Curious, however, is the presence of his watch. He still had it, and after lighting himself up a cigarette it still worked perfectly fine.
Then again, even Spy knows that if she had left him with every piece of arsenal ever created, he would stand no chance.
It was a small comfort to cloak, nevertheless, a way to soothe his paranoia. Invisible and unseen, he walked the length of the room, keep gloved hand lightly steadied against the wall. It was about 10 paces across and wide; there were metal doors that rolled up, like the shop fronts from that beach town he had spent a month spying and wooing ladies, on each side of the room. He gave one a knock, and it rattled; he tried to pull it up, and it didn't budge.
Spy turned from the doors. Restless, he paced the middle of the room, width-wise, so that the could easily turn to either end of the doors. He was caught, he knew that. It was all just a matter of when he would face the consequences.
Despite the twitchy paranoia, the throbbing of his skull, the animal-like pacing, Spy was prepared. He knew when he started it that it was just a matter of time before his liaisons with the RED Engineer were found out.