Anticipation clouded the Soldier's mind, churning and gritty, smothering his anxiety and rage. He wanted to be mad. He wanted steam to shoot out of his ears and nostrils, for his skin to boil red. What should have been blind anger and frustration was replaced with hollow, stinging pity. Yes, he felt sorry for that poor bastard. They all had snapped from time to time, all had their little episodes, but this? This was horrifying. That man was terrified, unaware of the awful acts that he had committed. He didn't know what he was doing. Some awful demon had overtaken him, using him like any tool. If any man was going to rescue him, it was going to have to be the bravest, strongest guy on the team.

Which, in the Soldier's opinion, was himself. Of course.

"Gentlemen, Miss Pauling, I'm not going to lie to you." The Soldier hefted the box in his arms, which contained the tools he would need for his interrogation. "This is going to be tricky. I'm going to need each and every one of you to follow my plan down to the letter."

His three assistants were quick to comply. It wasn't hard to get the Demoman or the Heavy on board with his schemes. Miss Pauling was more skeptical, but at this point, she was willing to help them along. It would do them no good to leave the crazed man as he was. If they couldn't figure out what had made him snap, then that would be it for this team. Just three sane men. The amount of curb stomping that would take place would be abysmal. Even if the Administrator could find six replacements this very night, it would take weeks to train new team members. It would be better for everyone involved to find out what that lunatic had done to incapacitate two thirds of the team.

More importantly, how to save them from—from whatever had happened to them.

"Aye, Cap'n. Wish ya could explain how a tea set's supposed to help, though," the Demoman said.

"Is strange, da. But, Soldier has other plans too?" The Heavy crossed his arms. "Is worth a shot. Anything to save little men."

The Soldier gave him a sharp nod. "Atta boy, Ruskie. We're going to need you to keep this door shut, no matter what. Don't let anyone through until Miss Pauling gives you the all clear."

"I suppose I'd better get to a safe area, then. I'll buzz you when I have the security tapes ready," Miss Pauling said.

"Very good." The Soldier turned his attention to the Demoman. "What do you say, Tavish? With me on this one?"

The Demoman removed his beanie. He scratched the scalp below dark, curly hair. "I dunno. I don't want to be in the room with that psycho. Suppose the poor lad can't help it, though."

Hefting the cardboard box into his left arm, the Soldier gave Tavish a pat on the shoulder. "I'm counting on you for this one. You saw how that bastard came into possession of that damn thing, after all. Maybe you can jog his memory."

"I suppose. Doesn't mean I have to like it," the Demoman said, placing his beanie back on his head.

The Soldier agreed with that sentiment. "Didn't say you had to." He sucked in a quick breath, then barked his command. "Alright! To your positions, ladies."

Miss Pauling bolted for her office. The men waited for her to step out of sight before opening the door to the room where they held their prisoner. The Heavy pushed both the Scotsman and the American in, slamming the door shut behind them. There was a thump as the Heavy pushed his back against the doorway, using his plentiful mass as a blockade. Tavish locked them in, keeping his eye on the man in the room. Nobody could risk taking their gaze off him. Not anymore.

Prior to the conversion to the room's current state, it used to be the recreation room. The television was off, its antenna bent at awkward angles. It looked like the prisoner had been playing pool, but the cues and balls had been collected and placed in neat rows. Magazines were left in a pile on the coffee table. Most were two to three months old, but a good majority of them were also gentlemen's magazines. Printed breasts did not lose their relevance quite as quickly as celebrity gossip. The boxed-in man had taken to reading a comic book instead, crinkling his nose at the hammy material. He turned his attention to his interrogators, giving them a grin that was oddly sly, considering his bucked teeth.

"Hello, simpletons," the Scout said.

The Demoman scratched his head. Boy, was that American lad screwed up. He took a recliner, readjusting it to face the Scout. The Soldier followed in turn, gently placing his box down next to the coffee table. He retrieved the first of his items from the box. It was a wooden, hexagonal container, painted with cranes and some Japanese family's crest. The Soldier lifted the lid, revealing milky white and blue teacups. He lifted a Thermos from the cardboard box, pouring its contents into three of the cups. He passed them in turn to his teammates. None of them hesitated to drink.

"Good brew," the Demoman smiled. "Didn't think ya like tea."

The Soldier nodded. "After my successful campaign against the Germans, I spent some time in Japan. If you want to survive there, you'd better like tea. Or sake, I suppose. Sapporo's got some decent beer, too."

The Scout raised an eyebrow, finishing his sip. "Not bad. Some kinda fancy foreign stuff? Didn't think that was your style, soldier-boy."

Neither the Demoman nor the Soldier acknowledged the Bostonian's slipping accent. They had to ease him into this. Too much information at once could fry out his brain. God help them if that happened. Then their teammates would truly be lost forever. They would have to be gentle, slow in placing their evidence.

The Soldier laid their first card down. "Scout, when in the hell did you start drinking tea?"

This confused the prisoner. He cocked his head to the side. "Well, I—I guess I—well, damn. I don't remember." He shook his head, scrunching up his face. "Like you can remember every little damn thing."

"Laddy, I can't remember ya even drinken' water!" The Demoman laughed. It was better to mask his accusation underneath a jest.

"Can't say I've ever seen ya do it either, scrumpy breath." The Scout placed his teacup onto the coffee table. "So, when are ya drongos gonna let me outta here?"

He was getting antsy. Time to draw him back in. The Soldier ignored his question, gesturing instead to the comic book the Bostonian had been reading. "What's that one about?"

The Scout shrugged, giving a short grunt. "Some Bonk Boy one. Not really all that good, mein chumps. Dumb blondes fallen off 'a bridges and stuff. Ain't been good since—since—" He paused for a moment, trying to think of the right year. Thirty-Eight? No, he'd started reading in Fifty-Seven. Or was it Forty-Nine?

His thoughts went on for a bit longer this time. His eyes started glazing over, the little men in his mind rifling through dusty tomes in the back of his brain. The Demoman frowned, turning his attention to the Soldier. The Midwesterner leaned forward, his hands folded with his chin resting on them. Was this working, or was the Scout's noodle frying up? He couldn't let the prisoner's brain unravel before the poor fellow could realize what was going on.

The Soldier had been planning to save this for later, but considering how baffled the Scout was, he had to get to the point quickly. He looked over to the Demoman, lowering his eyebrows. The Scotsman nodded in return. The Soldier turned his attention to the cardboard box, discarding piles of other evidence. The birth certificates, family photos, and journals would not do. He had to show the Scout this item.

He thought his hands would melt as he picked up the diabolical weapon.

As the Soldier slammed the item blade-down into the coffee table, the Scout's eyes flashed. His hands began to tremble, his upper lip slightly pulled back. Lovely. So, he could remember this. The Demoman felt chills run down his back at the sight of the object. Having been routinely cursed and haunted all of his life, he knew what it was like to be in the presence of an evil item. This object—this weapon—oh, it was beautiful. It had a hilt created from the bark of a tree species long since extinct. Even so, it smelt intoxicating and sweet, like roses and jasmine. It was laced with opal and gold, winding trails like ivy up to the hilt. The blade itself was knick-free, silver and brilliant as moonlight. This weapon could have fallen from heaven itself, if it didn't possess such demonic power.

The Soldier reached across the table, cupping the Scout's face. He lowered his voice. "You remember this, don't you?"

What surprised the duo was that the Scout didn't reach for the knife and stab them both. Instead, he cried out, flinging himself against the sofa. The howl he gave was awful, strained. It had the wrong tone for his vocal chords. There was a shuffle at the door as the Heavy sat up outside, startled by the scream.

The Soldier's next question rendered the prisoner mute. "Where did you get this knife, Spy?"

It had been a bright, blistering day, something hotter than any of the fair summer days he was used to. They had been in Casablanca. No, Istanbul. Or was it Baghdad? Why couldn't he remember? He recalled peeling his suit jacket away, the way his white dress shirt stuck to his skin. The sand gave way with a pleasant drag beneath his shoes. The city stunk of flesh baking in the hot sun—carved meats, human skin, the backs of horses and camels. They all culminated into one foul funk.

With the stench and the sun bearing down on him, he had little patience for his companions. The Demoman had been complaining about the heat, but he'd disappeared as soon as he'd come across some shady fellows in white hoods selling sulfur-based explosives. The Sniper had been quiet, at least. He was lost somewhere further back in the black market, haggling with a weathered mercenary over the price of his grandfather's jezail.

The Spy wasn't sure why he'd come to this place at all. It hadn't been an entirely miserable experience, although he would have rather travelled on his own. They had to be due back to the United States any day now. What had he seen? Where had they stayed? What were the people like? The women? Surely, anything else on this trip had to have been more pleasant than this stinking, sweltering marketplace.

When he had been the most frustrated, the most irritable, that little man appeared.

He wasn't sure where the little man had come from. It was as if he stepped from behind an invisible veil, perhaps birthed by the shadows and sand. The man stood no more than five feet tall, his back ruined by bone loss and poor posture. His fingers were thin, gnarled, more suited for a spider. The little man gave the Spy a crooked grin, the teeth in his mouth jutting just a little bit at the wrong angles. He could not see the man's eyes, but that smile was all that the Spy would ever need to identify that man.

"I have not seen one like you for many years," the little man said.

The Spy wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. "Oh?"

The little man wobbled next to the Frenchman, his knees unable to keep whatever weight he had balanced properly. "Your walk. Your face. You meander as though you were a peacock strutting through a pig pen."

Perhaps the Spy could be a little arrogant from time to time, but he didn't like when it was pointed out. "Do you have any other insults you wish to share?"

"Ha! My friend, I did not mean to get under your skin." The little man clapped a rigid hand on the Spy's shoulder. "Perhaps I can make it up to you."

The shady man slipped his other hand into his robes. The Spy winced, afraid of what the fellow was going to pull out of there. The man retrieved the item under his cloak, then passed it to the Spy for his appraisal. For something pulled out of a rude stranger's armpit, it was splendid. The handle and sheath were swirled with winding patterns, both cleaned and undamaged. The Spy pulled the knife from its cover, his eyes widening. He'd never seen such metalwork like this. The blade's substance shimmered in the sunlight. It certainly was an elegant weapon.

"I assume zhis is not a functional piece," the Spy murmured.

The little man shook his head. "No, my friend. It cuts through flesh with an arc as smooth as the crescent moon."

"You are good at marketing. I will give you zhat." The Spy flipped the blade around. "I have many weapons zhat are just as functional."

"Ah, but where any weapon can take a life, it takes a truly powerful blade to steal one's soul," the little man said.

Now this struck the Spy as a peculiar boast, if not an outright lie. Sure, he had tools that would take the form of his enemies. To steal souls, though? What sort of claim was that? "Pardon me if I do not believe you."

"It is said that many sultans and princes have used this blade, all to obtain the wisdom and features of their most sage and handsome foes." The shady man grinned, tipping his head upwards to reveal the tip of his broad nose. "For a man who hides a face like yours, dear traveler, what would be a more perfect weapon?"

This statement, however overly embellished, did fan the Spy's interest. "Very well. Name your price."

"Not very good at bargaining, are you?" The old man laughed, his cackling dry and raspy. "For you, though, I will give a good price."

He couldn't remember the deal that he struck with the strange man from the black market. It could have been in dinars. Liras. Maybe even in silver. That would have been fitting for a betrayer like him. All he could remember was how good that weapon had felt in his hands. Not in a mild way, like how a warm bath or a light stroll could be pleasing. It was powerful, beautiful, as if every wondrous force of nature had been squeezed into his palm.

"Now you know, my friend, I must warn you." The little man drew the Spy closer, whispering through thin lips. "You must never let this blade taste blood. For now, it is slumbering."

"You have sold zhis to me as a weapon, yet you say I cannot use it. I can't help but zhink I've been swindled," the Spy replied.

"All I have said is true, my friend. Many men were led to victory thanks to this weapon." The little man's voice lowered, decreasing into a dark growl. "They have also lost their own souls to this blade. Only a true and honorable man can use this knife without succumbing to its power. It is better not to tempt the serpent with music."

The Spy smirked as he tucked the blade away. "I zhink I can control myself."

"I hope you can, my friend," the little man said.

Every moment from then on was swallowed up by sand and blood.

Author's Note

Crap, crap, crap. I've got another story going. Why am I starting this?

Do you have that one weapon that always gets you? Like, you see you've been killed, and you think to yourself, "Oh, dammit!" I think there's at least one of those per class. Maybe the Liberty Launcher. Maybe the Machina. Heck, I could see where the Tomislav could be a problem. For me, it's the Your Eternal Reward. When I get backstabbed, it's almost always this weapon. It's insidious, but in a fun way.

I enjoyed writing the second-to-last chapter of Double Feature a little bit too much. I'm hoping this story will give me the opportunity to dip back into mind screw territory.