[tf2 1850s] lol, what is this.
Since the Engie Comic a lot of people were joking about Fu Manchu/Davy Crockett as the new Spy/Sniper OTP, and Dei was like, “you should write it” and I’m like “no way how would I even do that.”
And I tried and did a spectacular failtastic job at it.
I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies on Davy Crockett and Fu Manchu, which I was never closely familiar with. Then again, robotic zombie Lincoln surviving his assassination and wielding a flamethrower is canon, so enjoy my hand-waving. I’ll do better research in the future, this was a spur-of-the-moment thing.
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The sun was close to touching the horizon when Crockett stepped out of Tesla’s workshop with a newly repaired pistol and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He would have stayed longer, but Tesla seemed anxious for his safety and wanted Crockett to return home while there was still light outside.
“Come now, Nik,” he said, laughing, “It is not as if I hadn’t been capering about in the wilderness since I was a boy. The animals won’t bother me none.”
“It is not the animals I’m worried about,” Tesla said unhappily, but he shooed Crockett away and bid him farewell with a final warning; “Be sure to watch out for thieves. There has been someone fooling around with my machines lately.”
Crockett took heed of Tesla’s words and kept his pistol close at hand while he walked over the water trough where he left his horse. Even so, he wasn’t particularly worried about thieves, especially ones that seemed only interested in machinery.
Or, that was what he thought before he saw his horse on the ground, limbs all akimbo and unmoving.
He warily made his way over, making sure his pistol was loaded before kneeling down to check on his horse, and was not surprised to find it dead.
“Christ, Dolly, you poor girl,” Crockett said, standing up. There had been no wounds on her, so he checked the trough and dipped a hand in the clear, cool water.
“I would not leave it in there, if I were you,” an accented voice said behind him, “though the poison is meant to be consumed, I am sure it would still have a lesser ill effect on your hand.”
Crockett pulled away, turning around to find a man in a mask regarding him calmly. Crockett scowled and made to aim his pistol, but the man deftly step towards him and tucked a knife against his chin that tickled like tiny spider legs going down his neck.
“Manchu,” Crockett growled, “I should have known it was you wrecking Tesla’s work.”
Manchu laughed a little. “Edison does pay me a fortune to derail his progress, I cannot help it.”
Crockett grumbled under his breath and lowered his gun, and Manchu’s blade disappeared within his volumous sleeves. While their little group of nine had been hired by the Builders League United, it still did not stop them from taking on other mercenary work. Crockett himself preferred to take one job at a time, but the hours between fighting their main rivals were unscheduled, so he was forced to take on multiple jobs-much like Manchu had. Unfortunately for Tesla, the engineer happened to be one of Manchu’s targets.
Crockett moved his head back, putting a hand beneath his chin and found a little smear of blood. Manchu’s blade had left a little cut, making it looked as if he had nicked himself while shaving. Crockett wondered then if he was a victim to one of Manchu’s many employers, or simply a victim of Manchu’s own morbid entertainment.
“You didn’t have to kill the horse, you know,” Crockett said, frowning.
“Oh, but I enjoy distressing you,” Manchu said, confirming Crockett’s suspicions. “I will buy you a new one.”
“Or most likely leave me with an ass.”
“A wonderful suggestion,” Manchu replied, unsmiling and utterly serious, which made Crockett set his jaw and walk on. He knew Manchu rarely joked and laughed, and when he did, it was always at the expense of someone else.
“I suspect you like tormenting me,” Crockett said, using his longer strides to distance himself.
Manchu followed, taking quicker steps and looking serene with his hands folded into his sleeves, though Crockett knew very well that Manchu had an explosive temper when riled properly.
“How interesting. Tell me more about this theory of yours.”
Crockett slowed, adjusting his coonskin cap. His residence was on the other side of the little gold rush town and no mean distance either. Still, he did not want to lead Manchu to his home, however temporary it was, so Crockett took a turn and headed for the nearest saloon, deciding to humor the spy for a moment.
“You like attention, I reckon,” he said, pushing the swinging doors.
They chose a table in the corner, undoubtedly the quietest spot with the amount of drinking, whoring, and gaming going around everywhere else. Manchu glanced around, dissatisfied, but did not make a complaint and sat down as if the wobbling chair was a throne of gold.
“Allow me to clarify; I find pleasure in tormenting everyone, so it is not as if I am singling you out,” he said, shrugging. “And you can also say that I am ambitious instead, and attention only happens to be an amusing side-effect.”
There was a dangerous tone in Manchu’s voice and Crockett didn’t even bother to argue against it, since he was in full agreement. Ambition, he thought, was an inconvenient trait to have in a mercenary. It was hard to establish a reputation if one had to constantly travel and keep low, and lucky to have a wide-spread rumor or two that did not stay within the local area. Manchu’s notoriety, however, was just as infamous as Crockett was famous.
“Hell, Manchu,” Crockett said, waving down a bargirl to bring them a drink, “I don’t want to pass judgment so quickly, but you seem like the type of fellow that don’t like to beat around the bush.”
He paused, waiting for Manchu to make a comment, but the man slowly blinked and inclined his head, just a fraction for Crockett to continue. Without a positive or negative assent to guide him, Crockett’s answer was a little more honest than what he would have liked. He frowned and pushed forward.
“All I’m saying is that I know you don’t like to waste your time, and yet here you are, sitting ‘round, idling with me,” he said, drumming his fingers once on the table before the girl bought them the drinks. “And I don’t got a clue why-unless you want me to shoot a mighty ferocious bear out in the woods, which, might I add, is another impossibility because I damn well know you or one of your goons can take care of that yourselves.”
Though Crockett hadn’t spoken very loudly, there was no mistaking the mounting irritation that grew in his voice. He took a swing of ale to hide his slight mortification of having ranted in front of his comrade. He had always tried to be civil with his brothers-in-arms, if they could be called that. Fellows like Tesla, Henry, and Lincoln were easy to get along with. The others he could easily ignore or feign indifference, but Manchu always demanded a reaction. It was almost maddening.
As if to prove his point, Manchu folded his arms and said thoughtfully, “Well, I do not like to dirty my robes by fighting bears in the woods. There is no sense in that, I agree.”
“That isn’t the point I’m trying to make,” Crockett said, taking another fortifying gulp of ale. Manchu hadn’t even touched his. “You got no use for me outside of work, and I don’t get into the habit of socializing with men of questionable behavior and morals. I’m dead serious when I say that I don’t want any progress made in our acquaintance beyond what we do for BLU.”
Manchu kept his expression impassive, but Crockett would swear he could hear traces of a sardonic drawl in Manchu’s normally terse words, “With one breath you say that you do not like to pass judgment, and in the next you accuse me of being ‘questionable’. Mr. Crockett, you baffle me at times.”
It wasn’t so much as ‘questionable’ in Crockett’s head than ‘utterly despicable’, but he wasn’t out to make an enemy out of Manchu. Crockett knew his own reputation rendered him something of an American hero, and Manchu’s was the complete opposite. If it wasn’t for BLU, Crockett would rather not associate himself with such a dastardly villain.
“Heaven knows you do the same to me, Mr. Manchu,” he said, grim and a little more than annoyed. His glass was still half full and would have been a wretched waste if it hadn’t tasted terrible. He could not exactly blame Manchu for leaving it as is. Standing up, he placed a few coins on the table, paying for both drinks. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll head on home.”
He got to the doors of the saloon when he heard Manchu say very firmly, “No, I do not think you will.”
The voice carried out far more easily than it ought to in a busy saloon. Crockett paused in surprised, finding that it had gone quiet. Slowly turning around, he belatedly realized that the establishment was mostly full of Chinese faces, staring at him. Before then, Crockett had assumed they were railroad workers, but it appeared construction wasn’t the only thing they were employed in.
He took a step towards the exit and at once a squat, solidly built Chinese worker stood up to block his path. Crockett stared. Without a horse and enough bullets to put through everyone’s heads, there was no way he could escape without some amount of injury. He turned again to face Manchu.
“Well, shit,” he said, putting up his hands, more of a gesture of exasperation than surrender. “What the hell do you want from me then?”
Manchu smiled, collecting the money from the table and slipping it into his robe. “Only a few moments of your time,” he said, rising up from his chair.
“That so?” Crockett drawled as Manchu walked up to him. The Chinese worker blocking the exit moved out of the way, allowing Manchu to pass through. After a moment’s consideration, Crockett stepped outside.
The sun had set halfway below the horizon, casting a rosy orange glow over the town. It gave Crockett the immediate thought of having jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. For a moment, he entertained the thought of leaving, but the reasoned it would have been useless anyway since he would only see Manchu again in the morning while they were fighting the REDs. Besides, Crockett didn’t like to think of the beating his pride would take if he did run.
“Do you intend to stand there all night, Mr Crockett?” Manchu asked from somewhere ahead of him.
Crockett let his hand fall from the holster at his hip and, with a muttered reply, followed the spy to wherever he may lead him.
And I tried and did a spectacular failtastic job at it.
I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies on Davy Crockett and Fu Manchu, which I was never closely familiar with. Then again, robotic zombie Lincoln surviving his assassination and wielding a flamethrower is canon, so enjoy my hand-waving. I’ll do better research in the future, this was a spur-of-the-moment thing.
-----
The sun was close to touching the horizon when Crockett stepped out of Tesla’s workshop with a newly repaired pistol and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He would have stayed longer, but Tesla seemed anxious for his safety and wanted Crockett to return home while there was still light outside.
“Come now, Nik,” he said, laughing, “It is not as if I hadn’t been capering about in the wilderness since I was a boy. The animals won’t bother me none.”
“It is not the animals I’m worried about,” Tesla said unhappily, but he shooed Crockett away and bid him farewell with a final warning; “Be sure to watch out for thieves. There has been someone fooling around with my machines lately.”
Crockett took heed of Tesla’s words and kept his pistol close at hand while he walked over the water trough where he left his horse. Even so, he wasn’t particularly worried about thieves, especially ones that seemed only interested in machinery.
Or, that was what he thought before he saw his horse on the ground, limbs all akimbo and unmoving.
He warily made his way over, making sure his pistol was loaded before kneeling down to check on his horse, and was not surprised to find it dead.
“Christ, Dolly, you poor girl,” Crockett said, standing up. There had been no wounds on her, so he checked the trough and dipped a hand in the clear, cool water.
“I would not leave it in there, if I were you,” an accented voice said behind him, “though the poison is meant to be consumed, I am sure it would still have a lesser ill effect on your hand.”
Crockett pulled away, turning around to find a man in a mask regarding him calmly. Crockett scowled and made to aim his pistol, but the man deftly step towards him and tucked a knife against his chin that tickled like tiny spider legs going down his neck.
“Manchu,” Crockett growled, “I should have known it was you wrecking Tesla’s work.”
Manchu laughed a little. “Edison does pay me a fortune to derail his progress, I cannot help it.”
Crockett grumbled under his breath and lowered his gun, and Manchu’s blade disappeared within his volumous sleeves. While their little group of nine had been hired by the Builders League United, it still did not stop them from taking on other mercenary work. Crockett himself preferred to take one job at a time, but the hours between fighting their main rivals were unscheduled, so he was forced to take on multiple jobs-much like Manchu had. Unfortunately for Tesla, the engineer happened to be one of Manchu’s targets.
Crockett moved his head back, putting a hand beneath his chin and found a little smear of blood. Manchu’s blade had left a little cut, making it looked as if he had nicked himself while shaving. Crockett wondered then if he was a victim to one of Manchu’s many employers, or simply a victim of Manchu’s own morbid entertainment.
“You didn’t have to kill the horse, you know,” Crockett said, frowning.
“Oh, but I enjoy distressing you,” Manchu said, confirming Crockett’s suspicions. “I will buy you a new one.”
“Or most likely leave me with an ass.”
“A wonderful suggestion,” Manchu replied, unsmiling and utterly serious, which made Crockett set his jaw and walk on. He knew Manchu rarely joked and laughed, and when he did, it was always at the expense of someone else.
“I suspect you like tormenting me,” Crockett said, using his longer strides to distance himself.
Manchu followed, taking quicker steps and looking serene with his hands folded into his sleeves, though Crockett knew very well that Manchu had an explosive temper when riled properly.
“How interesting. Tell me more about this theory of yours.”
Crockett slowed, adjusting his coonskin cap. His residence was on the other side of the little gold rush town and no mean distance either. Still, he did not want to lead Manchu to his home, however temporary it was, so Crockett took a turn and headed for the nearest saloon, deciding to humor the spy for a moment.
“You like attention, I reckon,” he said, pushing the swinging doors.
They chose a table in the corner, undoubtedly the quietest spot with the amount of drinking, whoring, and gaming going around everywhere else. Manchu glanced around, dissatisfied, but did not make a complaint and sat down as if the wobbling chair was a throne of gold.
“Allow me to clarify; I find pleasure in tormenting everyone, so it is not as if I am singling you out,” he said, shrugging. “And you can also say that I am ambitious instead, and attention only happens to be an amusing side-effect.”
There was a dangerous tone in Manchu’s voice and Crockett didn’t even bother to argue against it, since he was in full agreement. Ambition, he thought, was an inconvenient trait to have in a mercenary. It was hard to establish a reputation if one had to constantly travel and keep low, and lucky to have a wide-spread rumor or two that did not stay within the local area. Manchu’s notoriety, however, was just as infamous as Crockett was famous.
“Hell, Manchu,” Crockett said, waving down a bargirl to bring them a drink, “I don’t want to pass judgment so quickly, but you seem like the type of fellow that don’t like to beat around the bush.”
He paused, waiting for Manchu to make a comment, but the man slowly blinked and inclined his head, just a fraction for Crockett to continue. Without a positive or negative assent to guide him, Crockett’s answer was a little more honest than what he would have liked. He frowned and pushed forward.
“All I’m saying is that I know you don’t like to waste your time, and yet here you are, sitting ‘round, idling with me,” he said, drumming his fingers once on the table before the girl bought them the drinks. “And I don’t got a clue why-unless you want me to shoot a mighty ferocious bear out in the woods, which, might I add, is another impossibility because I damn well know you or one of your goons can take care of that yourselves.”
Though Crockett hadn’t spoken very loudly, there was no mistaking the mounting irritation that grew in his voice. He took a swing of ale to hide his slight mortification of having ranted in front of his comrade. He had always tried to be civil with his brothers-in-arms, if they could be called that. Fellows like Tesla, Henry, and Lincoln were easy to get along with. The others he could easily ignore or feign indifference, but Manchu always demanded a reaction. It was almost maddening.
As if to prove his point, Manchu folded his arms and said thoughtfully, “Well, I do not like to dirty my robes by fighting bears in the woods. There is no sense in that, I agree.”
“That isn’t the point I’m trying to make,” Crockett said, taking another fortifying gulp of ale. Manchu hadn’t even touched his. “You got no use for me outside of work, and I don’t get into the habit of socializing with men of questionable behavior and morals. I’m dead serious when I say that I don’t want any progress made in our acquaintance beyond what we do for BLU.”
Manchu kept his expression impassive, but Crockett would swear he could hear traces of a sardonic drawl in Manchu’s normally terse words, “With one breath you say that you do not like to pass judgment, and in the next you accuse me of being ‘questionable’. Mr. Crockett, you baffle me at times.”
It wasn’t so much as ‘questionable’ in Crockett’s head than ‘utterly despicable’, but he wasn’t out to make an enemy out of Manchu. Crockett knew his own reputation rendered him something of an American hero, and Manchu’s was the complete opposite. If it wasn’t for BLU, Crockett would rather not associate himself with such a dastardly villain.
“Heaven knows you do the same to me, Mr. Manchu,” he said, grim and a little more than annoyed. His glass was still half full and would have been a wretched waste if it hadn’t tasted terrible. He could not exactly blame Manchu for leaving it as is. Standing up, he placed a few coins on the table, paying for both drinks. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll head on home.”
He got to the doors of the saloon when he heard Manchu say very firmly, “No, I do not think you will.”
The voice carried out far more easily than it ought to in a busy saloon. Crockett paused in surprised, finding that it had gone quiet. Slowly turning around, he belatedly realized that the establishment was mostly full of Chinese faces, staring at him. Before then, Crockett had assumed they were railroad workers, but it appeared construction wasn’t the only thing they were employed in.
He took a step towards the exit and at once a squat, solidly built Chinese worker stood up to block his path. Crockett stared. Without a horse and enough bullets to put through everyone’s heads, there was no way he could escape without some amount of injury. He turned again to face Manchu.
“Well, shit,” he said, putting up his hands, more of a gesture of exasperation than surrender. “What the hell do you want from me then?”
Manchu smiled, collecting the money from the table and slipping it into his robe. “Only a few moments of your time,” he said, rising up from his chair.
“That so?” Crockett drawled as Manchu walked up to him. The Chinese worker blocking the exit moved out of the way, allowing Manchu to pass through. After a moment’s consideration, Crockett stepped outside.
The sun had set halfway below the horizon, casting a rosy orange glow over the town. It gave Crockett the immediate thought of having jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. For a moment, he entertained the thought of leaving, but the reasoned it would have been useless anyway since he would only see Manchu again in the morning while they were fighting the REDs. Besides, Crockett didn’t like to think of the beating his pride would take if he did run.
“Do you intend to stand there all night, Mr Crockett?” Manchu asked from somewhere ahead of him.
Crockett let his hand fall from the holster at his hip and, with a muttered reply, followed the spy to wherever he may lead him.