The heavens were empty above the city of Kong King. No star could penetrate the rolling clouds of steam that boiled from storm drains and smokestacks. Streaks of blue, green, and red lights burned in the eyes of gargantuan, black apartment towers. Spotlights combed the night sky, finding blimps and planes in their vain attempts to seek starlight. Water rolled thick and murky in its bays, wave crests vermillion and cerulean in the unnatural city lights. The massive port city was of its own world. It was wrapped in its own fog and light, bound by frothing waves.

Its residents, in their inebriation, went about drinking and laughing in the night. Their faces were as rosy as the lanterns that hung above their heads. Signs embossed in gold, black, and white hanzi led them home. They were of no use to a stranger rushing through the streets. The foreigner pushed forward with a sober mission. She rushed through waves of human traffic, desperately seeking a shining blue box. One glowed on a street corner next to a diner. Running past customers and their bicycles, she leapt into the booth. Plucking copper coins into its telephone, she dialed and spun about on her heels.

She hadn't been followed.

The woman placed a hand on the back of her neck. She felt wrong. She was almost never out in public with her hair down. Black hair ran in wavy, unbrushed spirals down her shoulders. She pushed it behind her back, taking a moment to fix her glasses. They'd gone crooked in her run. She was lucky to have kept them at all.

"Please, pick up. Please," the woman pleaded with the phone. The device in her ear crackled. She stiffened as the line died, her eyes widening. There was no dial tone. No operator. Just empty plastic.

Then, an outburst of incomprehensible Mandarin and a hissing din came screeching out of the earpiece.

Miss Pauling slammed the phone back onto its cradle. She watched helplessly as static traveled throughout the city like a plague. The interference hit the street in a little restaurant. A small black-and-white television set exploded into grey static. White and black rectangles flashed across the faces of irritated customers. More hissing noise and fuzzy pictures spread across the street. Radios were the next to go. They burst into wild keening and blasts of nonsensical sound, permeated faintly by a radio jockey trying desperately to cut through the obscuration.

Those horrible men had released their secret weapon. The hissing transmission permeated through all communications. There was no television, no radio, and no phone. Their din cut through all signals. She raised her glare to the horizon, finding radio towers jutting like splinters in the sky. They were all failing to overcome the powerful feed now interrupting their broadcasts. Their second weapon would be soon to follow, quick to burn the city down under a haze of snow.

They would be made of her men.

Her team had failed. Miss Pauling had made the right call, but much too slowly. How many sacrifices had been rendered pointless by her failure? She leaned against the phone box, her stomach churning. The Administrator couldn't help her now. No one outside of Kong King could save them.

She rolled up her sleeves, then pushed into the crowd once more. If she was the last free agent, she couldn't roll over. Her men needed her. They were out in this twisted city, clawing and fighting as long as their lungs were filled with air. They had bought her time by sacrificing their own safety. This had been their only chance for getting external support. There would be no more help. They were on their own.

Electronic devices sneered at her as she set out to collect her men.

The object was small, disc-shaped and clear. It was made of a flexible, transparent material. Miss Pauling had seen objects like this before. It was a lens. If it had come from anyplace else, she would have thought of it as nothing more than a fancy sort of contact lens. As a prototype from Tian Lu Technologies? It was anything but ordinary.

Miss Pauling dropped it into the caring hands of the soft-spoken Texan that had given it to her. "When did you steal that?"

"Managed to yank it out of a crate before Demo blew the whole damn warehouse to Kingdom Come," the Engineer smirked. "Also salvaged a few chips. Ya really ought to see them, Miss Paulin'. We really destroyed some fantastic pieces 'a machinery."

"The only good piece 'a technology is a destroyed piece 'a technology!" the Demoman grumbled. He burped, then reached for the fifth bottle of peach wine.

He'd found his own mighty haul of goods after their mission. The team was doing their best to help him polish it off. The Medic and the Heavy easily finished one off together. The Soldier and the Engineer slaughtered another one. Miss Pauling helped the Sniper empty one, but both were knocked off their feet. So, to be fair, that only left one that the Demoman had drunk on his own. At least the take-out food had helped their bodies soak up most of the alcohol.

The Scout, the Spy, and the Pyro were having none of their celebrations. The Pyro was off in his own little world, studying the activity on the street and glancing at the makeshift computer that the Engineer had set up to monitor the respawn system. The Spy was curled in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He'd eschewed the wine, believing it to be no better than moonshine. The Scout was just not having any of their celebrations. Not the food, not the drinking. It was all disgusting to him. He'd retired to bed, too exhausted by the day's events to be an amiable conversation partner.

"You know, my good friend. I have to disagree with you." The Soldier leaned towards the Demoman, wine sloshing in his glass. "Technology is good. Very, very good. When it's American! But when it's made over here? Gremlins. Nothing but gremlins."

The Demoman shook his head. "I thought gremlins were Japanese."

The Soldier jerked upright. "No! Well, maybe. But they're here, too."

There was a low grumble from the Sniper. He fumbled for his drink, already irritated with the conversation. His fingers brushed past his glass. In his stupor, he knocked it over. His face dropped, embarrassed with the lack of his usual dexterity. Pink color rushed onto his cheeks as he slunk beneath the brim of his hat. His teammates laughed at his embarrassment. He'd hit his alcohol tolerance too early.

"S-shouldn't we be concentratin' on actual problems?" the Sniper tried to divert the topic. "We took out a warehouse, but not a plant. They'll just make more 'a this crap." He hiccupped once, sending a new scarlet wave across his face.

Miss Pauling nodded in agreement. "We'll be hitting that soon. Not tonight, though. You guys earned a break."

The Spy cut into their conversation. He waved his cigarette about like an irritated warlock. "If you all were wise, you would not be getting so inebriated. I will not take pity on you, nor your hangovers."

"A little alcohol is good for you, every once in a vhile!" The Medic smirked. He picked up the Sniper's glass, then took the Demoman's bottle from his hand. He filled the glass up, smirking. "It relaxes people in a stressed state. And ve are very stressed people here, are ve not?" He downed half of the drink without blinking, then slammed the glass in front of the Sniper's knees. "Zhat, my friend, is how you relax!"

The Heavy's jaw dropped just a touch. "How many germs did you drink, Doctor?"

The Medic shrugged. "Alcohol kills all germs. And if it doesn't? Zhen I just had zhe equivalent of a flu shot."

Miss Pauling nudged a cardboard box of food towards the Medic. "Hey. If you're going to do that, then eat your supper. I'm not having any sick men on the field tomorrow."

Wincing, the Medic tried not to look at the box's contents. The vegetables were most likely edible. He had doubts about the slimy pieces of flesh mixed with them. As a German with an affinity for agrarian food, seafood tended to leave a foul taste in his mouth. "You know, it's not good to be too healzh conscious."

"Perhaps we should discuss mission," the Heavy stated. He nudged pieces of beef from his meal onto the Medic's plate while he talked. "We have plan? If not, then we talk about it now."

The Engineer bobbed his head. "Sure thin'. I think it should go the same as today. Seemed to work out well, anyway."

"I am not so interested in diversion work again, but I will do so," the Spy murmured.

"Then I will go with Spy. My Mandarin, not so good. But, is something," the Heavy stated. He pulled a spiral of lo mein noodles off his plate, then swallowed them.

The Soldier sighed, grabbing for a spoon. He slurped his soup, shaking his head in displeasure. "Should have known the Commie would have known Commie speak."

Getting the team back on track, the Demoman volunteered his part. "Then, Soldier, Pyro, 'n I will hit the main floor. Light it up. Hell, might even have some firecrackers around here. That'll be a load 'a fun, won't it, Pyro?"

The Pyro was slow to respond to the Demoman. He was staring intently at the computer's screen, watching numbers spin and graphs flow. Cocking his head to the side, he realized that he had been addressed. He gave a startled, "Hmmph!" He raised the Demoman a thumb, then went back to studying the computer. It was the closest object they had to a functioning television in this small, ramshackle building. Not that the state-run programs would have been that much more engaging.

"So, Engineer? You and I will be gazhering intelligence again?" The Medic shot a dirty look towards the ceiling. He leaned forward, projecting his voice at a stairwell. "Assuming zhat dummkopf Scout helps us out!" He received no reply from the grouchy young man. "Hmm. Perhaps he is already asleep."

The Engineer shrugged. "He's a youngin'. Still needs a lot of sleep." Nudging the Sniper on his shoulder, the Engineer asked, "Gonna be on overwatch with Miss Paulin'?

The Sniper sat upright, giving a long yawn. "Course. Not that I wouldn't want to be with you, mates, but it's not every day that I get to work with such a talented young Sheila."

"Mister Mundy, you had better keep your mouth shut. Or at least finish your meal." Miss Pauling reclined, fishing around a box of steamed rice.

"Tryin' to save room for dessert." The Sniper nudged a paper bag next to Miss Pauling's feet. She laughed, then shook her head. It was impossible to hide sweets from the men. One of them always managed to find out about treats, one way or another. She put her meal down, then placed the contents of the paper bag on the large, circular table they were huddled around. Prying back the lid of various containers revealed several golden cakes.

The Soldier's eyes widened. His right hand shot out, picking one up in the blink of an eye. "Mooncakes! I haven't had these since Nineteen Fifty-Two!"

"Back vhen you were making zhe same mess in Japan zhat you made in my country?" the Medic shot the Soldier a glance.

The Soldier retorted by shoving a torn-off hunk of cake in the Medic's mouth. "This ought to shut up your lippy mouth."

"Be nice to Doctor, or he will not heal you tomorrow," the Heavy grumbled.

The Medic shrugged, swallowing the small piece. "Not too bad, actually."

Glancing over Miss Pauling's shoulder, the Spy shook his head. "And how many zhousands of calories are zhose?"

Miss Pauling placed a cake into the Spy's hand. "Probably more than you ate today. You need to relax. You're going to worry yourself sick."

"You must forgive me, Miss Pauling. I am not myself tonight." The Spy bowed his head, then nodded towards the stairwell. "I will be retiring for zhe evening. Zhank you for your generosity. I will save your purchases for my breakfast."

The Engineer stood up from his seat. "I should probably get some rest too. Not to mention this fella." He nudged the Sniper. The Australian had managed to cut a sliver of cake and eat it, but he was sitting in a contented daze. He tried to shoo the Texan off. Being the stubborn man he was, the Engineer didn't let that slide. He hauled his drunken friend off the couch, then braced him as they both ascended upstairs.

"Buncha wee lads. It's barely nine o'clock! I'm stayin' up until—" A yawn escaped the Demoman's mouth. The Soldier laughed as the Scotsman blushed in frustration. His lively spirit had outrun his body. "Ya know, maybe some sleep would be good."

"Let's dismiss for the evening, then." The Soldier picked up what little was left of his food. His cake was already completely gone. "I'll take care of clean-up. You ladies go get your beauty sleep. I want you all awake at six in the morning! Sharp!"

The men dispersed from the table in waves. Miss Pauling was slower to leave. She stayed alongside the Soldier, picking up boxes, glasses and utensils. There wasn't all that much to wash and dry, but she felt uneasy leaving the task to one man. As everyone else slipped off to bed in their tiny quarters, the duo finished off the dishes in quiet solitude. For being such a man's man, the Soldier was efficient and meticulous at washing dishes. Between the two of them, chores were completed in fifteen minutes.

"You'd better head off to bed too, Miss Pauling." The Soldier folded the washcloth he used for scrubbing glasses. "I might make fun of those other ladies, but you are a true lady. Never feel the need to push yourself. That's what we're paid to do."

"I'm fine, Mister Doe. Thank you for your concern." Miss Pauling patted the Soldier on his shoulder. Sometimes, his words came off as somewhat misguided or old fashioned. She knew he only meant for the best. "Have a good night."

As she departed for her bedroom, content with the day's events, she gave a few last salutations to the men around her. She went to her room and closed the door behind her. It didn't take her long to switch into lighter pajamas. As she unwound the hair from the back of her head, she smiled, thinking of the men in her company. In such a strange, unfamiliar place, it felt good to have someone at her back.

If she hadn't been so drowsy with good food, alcohol, and victory, she would have seen what was wrong with that idyllic evening. She would have been able to prevent the oncoming slaughter of her men and the chill of the weapons that would strike Kong King.

There were a few basic rules to urban warfare that Miss Pauling had to live by. The first rule was to never fight in public. That meant keeping to alleyways and backstreets. Not safe for strangers in the city, and certainly not safe for petite women. It was the only way to avoid casualties. The danger of her situation meant to follow rule two. Weapons had to be prepared at all times. Her trusty revolver was stocked and ready to go. A lithe knife was strapped to her hip. A wristwatch was secured around her left arm, given to her in panicked haste. It was not much, but it would have to do. It would help her escape. Evading conflict was rule three. If she had to fight, then she had to end it quickly. Rule four emphasized efficiency above all else.

She was open to making a few amendments along the way.

Miss Pauling slunk towards a car park, keeping her back to the wall. She should have taken one of the Sniper's shields. That would have given her a little more comfort, if just emotionally. The watch on her wrist was like a strong hand clutching her arm. It was heavy, weighing against her thoughts.

She crept into the car park, wincing as she passed the guard posts. Both men were murdered. Blood pooled in syrupy piles, glass falling into the mix. The work of those machines, no doubt. Biting her cheek, Miss Pauling reached for the tip of her gun. She pulled back a tab. White light streamed from the flashlight component sitting just beneath the muzzle of the revolver. It was the only help she could get.

The first floor was barren. The second was as deserted, lights all shot out. Ascending to the third floor was no better. Fresh bloodstains splattered across the cement floors. She wondered whom the blood belonged to, pitying its owner. She climbed the stairwell up one more floor. It was marked as the fifth floor, but Miss Pauling knew better. It was superstition that kept the true name of this floor hidden.

It was there that one of their rental vans had come to rest.

Miss Pauling tapped on her gun, making sure the safety was off. She kept low, almost crawling towards the vehicle. She'd told them. They shouldn't have gone back. She wanted to damn them for saving her life, but she found herself hesitant to do so. Poor bastards were probably in a world of pain now. Maybe they were with their fallen men. Maybe not. Either way, they were in trouble.

She approached the driver's side door. Lights beamed from the front of the van. Flashing her gun's muzzle inside, she found the vehicle completely empty. No guns. No hats. Projectiles had shattered spidery circles in the windshield. They landed in the back of the seats, tearing holes in their wake. She would not find her men here. They had been taken.

Glass tinkled behind her.

Miss Pauling did not waste a moment. She saw a hulking shadow rise out of the cars. With a sharp snap, she raised her gun. The dark figure flashed white as her gun's flashlight struck it. Fear pierced her nerves. She had to be sure. She would not fire on her men.

She gave a sharp yell at the towering figure in front of her. "Open your eyes! Now!"

Author's Notes

Sorry for the hiatus. I was writing essays on my Tumblr account.

Anyway! Back to the story business! I've wanted to do this story for a while now. It originally began as a horror story about a mantis woman, believe it or not. Parts of that draft were…well, unsavory. I didn't think I had the chops to pull it off. Then the Pyro update happened, and I got another idea. That didn't pan out, either. Then, Mann versus Machine.

I MEAN DAMN.

So, I want to try that route. Sort of. More like, I want to rip off Blade Runner or Snatcher, and now I have a legitimate reason for why that scenario for happen. (Yes, the title is a Snatcher reference. No, it's not a pollen like in Snatcher.)

Stick around, readers. Things are about to get messy.