❝ well, merde, that makes me a rather incompetent spy, non ? ❞
there was a crackle of static as the spy’s cloak dropped from a push of a button. the man in question was revealed from head to toe, his form being donned by his usual blu uniform && mask. there was a smirk playing on his lips once his body finally shimmered back to existence, gloved hands already drawing out his cigarette box && its accompanying lighter from their respective homes within one of the ludicrously many pockets that had been stitched into the man’s blazer. he didn’t look remotely surprised that the other sniper had spotted him before he had even managed to step well within his nest– they were professionals, after all.
❝ was it my footsteps ? did you see my cloak at the bottom of the stairs ? or did you smell my cologne and got confused as to why you were smelling something other than piss for once, hm ?❞
he was well aware why the sniper had spotted him, he had made a show of making sure that his shadow was visible just before he had turned the corner, giving the sniper a perfect opportunity to spot him long before he was even near him. better to be safe than sorry && far better to be spotted than be a victim of friendly fire.
This had been one of the more paranoid weeks. It felt like someone would visit every hour no matter where he moved, and every time they would have to go through the process of “are you actually my teammate trying to talk tactics or another goddamn Spy.” Intersperse those with the more frequent straightforward silent backstab attempts, and the whole arrangement had Cecil on a hair-trigger.
It was a testament to the ever-present burning stubborn patience that kept him from just extrapolating the Spy’s position and shooting him. The RED wasn’t usually so obvious. It could still be a trick of course, but if a teammate had actually made an attempt at warning him of their approach shooting them isn’t positive reinforcement.
Or the Spy could just be stupid. He didn’t know him well enough to know yet.
“Shadow,” he mutters, tracking the other with an intensity that projected distrust. He nearly ignores the jab at the jarate. Nearly.
“You get used to it.” Maintaining unblinking eye contact, he reaches over and picks up a jar, demeanor almost casual. The threat of a non-lethal Spy check a tease, sparking the barest hint of amusement behind dark aviators.
