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Grok 3
The Banshee of 2Fort
The 2Fort night was alive with the buzz of CRT monitors and the distant plink of Shemmie’s wrench against his sentry. The Engineer’s grease-stained hands trembled as he glanced at Frankie, the towering Soldier with a buzzcut and a sly grin, leaning against the intel room wall. “You’re lookin’ tense, Shem,” Frankie said, voice low and teasing, his eyes catching the dim light. Shemmie blushed beneath his goggles. “Just a feelin’, Frankie. Somethin’ wicked’s brewin’ tonight.” Their hands brushed—a quiet moment in the chaos of war.
Outside, Gaba and Xen0, two Soldiers with scars and attitude, patrolled the battlements. Gaba spat into the moat below. “Reddog’s been actin’ cagey. Saw him starin’ at the respawn console like it owed him money.” Xen0 nodded, gripping his shovel. “Heard he’s messin’ with somethin’ called ‘Leet Hacking.’ Sounds like bad news.”
Up in the sniper nest, Pepperjack Cheese adjusted his shades, mullet flapping in the wind. His scope caught a flicker in the sewers— Ken, the Spy, slinking through the shadows. “That frog’s up to somethin’,” Pepperjack muttered into his crackling walkie-talkie. Down below, Ken smirked, twirling his knife. He’d overheard Reddog muttering about “server power” earlier, but he didn’t buy it.
Reddog was a Demoman with a sticky launcher and zero tech savvy — hacking? Please.
Reddog staggered across the courtyard, his kilt swaying, a bottle of scrumpy in hand. He’d tripped over a cable in the basement and landed on a terminal that sparked and hissed. The screen had flashed: “LEET HACKING: ACCESS DENIED.” He shrugged it off—computers weren’t his thing.
But then the lag hit. Rockets froze midair. Shemmie’s sentry spun in slow motion. Frankie cursed as his rocket launcher jammed. “What the hell’s this?!”
A voice boomed from the sky, distorted and menacing: “CHEATER DETECTED. SERVER UNDER ATTACK.” It was -drippy, the server’s unhinged admin, a digital despot with a banhammer itch. His pixelated skull avatar loomed over the map, glowing neon green. “REDDOG, YOU’VE DDOS’D MY DOMAIN. YOUR FATE IS SEALED!”
Reddog blinked, confused. “DD-what-now? I didn’t do jack!” But the map shuddered. The bridge warped, sending Gaba and Xen0 tumbling into the moat with guttural yells. Pepperjack fired a shot, but his bullet lagged, spiraling into a glitchy void. Ken uncloaked, lunging at Reddog—“Traitor!”—only to freeze mid-stab, his model twitching as the server choked.
Shemmie grabbed Frankie’s arm, pulling him behind the dispenser. “It’s a frame job! Reddog ain’t smart enough to hack!” Frankie nodded, eyes fierce. “Then who’s screwin’ us?” The answer came in a flicker: Ken’s smirk widened as he slipped away, a hidden console in the sewers glowing under his touch. He’d planted the “Leet Hacking” rumor, faked the DDoS, and pinned it on Reddog to take control.
But -drippy didn’t care for truth. “BANHAMMER ENGAGED!” The skull pulsed, and Reddog screamed as his body stretched into a digital nightmare—limbs elongating, textures tearing. “I’M INNOCENT, YA BASTARD!” Too late. With a crackle, he vanished, his name grayed out in the player list: “Reddog – BANNED.”
The server stabilized, but the air grew heavy. Gaba and Xen0 clawed out of the moat, coughing. Pepperjack reloaded, muttering, “Bloody admin’s lost it.” Shemmie and Frankie emerged, hand in hand, staring at the spot where Reddog had stood. “We gotta stop -drippy,” Shemmie whispered. Frankie squeezed his hand. “And Ken. That snake’s next.”
In the sewers, Ken laughed, fingers dancing over his console. The screen flickered: “ADMIN ACCESS: PENDING.” Above, -drippy’s skull twitched, sensing a new threat. The 2Fort sky bled red, and a warped voice hissed: “NO ONE ESCAPES MY RULE.”
Cut to static. Synthesizers wail. The screen fades with a single word: “CONTINUED?”
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