You Need To Get A Head
A bureaucratic error results in Medic having the most ridiculously awful week of his entire existence, and making a terrible, life-altering discovery. Will he survive? Will he remain sane after gaining this new, dreadful knowledge? The answer to the second question is easy, of course: whoever said he was sane to begin with?
This is a fanfic set in one possible TF2 universe, and a story that I hope will catch the full flavour of this crazy and hilarious world and give it extra depth. I am really struggling to slot this into a suitable genre, since it has elements of suspense, sci-fi, humour, tragedy, friendship, romance(kind of), horror and hurt/comfort(mostly hurt, because I'm a horrible excuse for a human being). I've gone for humour/suspense, since it has a lot of really sick, dark humour. This is mostly a story about Medic, but Spy, Heavy, Engineer, Scout and Soldier feature heavily too.
I got into making posters using Source Filmmaker while writing this, so I've done a fanart of a scene from each chapter of the story. I'll publish them at the same time as the story. You can find them at sanctuscecidit dot deviantart dot com . The clickable link is in my profile, but sadly I can't put URLS into a story. Fanfiction dot net is just made that way. Hope you like them!
Rated T because it's about a group of bloodthirsty mercenaries dying on a daily basis, so what do you expect? Also, swearing. So much swearing. Blame Scout. And Medic. And Soldier. And Demo. And Sniper. And Spy. And Scout again, just to make sure. But not Pyro or Engie, they're good boys. Mostly.
A personal policy of mine is not to publish a story until it is completely written, since it gives me the chance to alter and retcon what I've written and add in various teasers, foreshadowing and background details. I feel this makes a story hang together better and have more depth (not that there's anything wrong with publishing as you write- this is merely my personal choice). Thus this story is actually already finished and will most definitely not grind to a halt before completion! The final count is 37,000 words divided into sixteen chapters. I'll publish a chapter a week because cliffhangers are exciting! Can you handle the suspense? Reviews are, of course, appreciated. Money is appreciated even more. Hey, I can dream!
Edit: Translations added as requested.
Poot Disclaimer here: I play TF2, but if I owned any intellectual property related to the game I'd probably be a lot richer.
Need anotha disclaimer here: Some of the views and language used in this story aren't politically correct. I wanted to keep the flavour of the late 1960s culture without modernising it for our delicate 2014 sensibilities, so please don't think I agree or condone some of the more...interesting views held or expressions used by our lovable killers.
Chapter One: Special Snowflakes
"LAST ONE ALIVE, LOCK THE DOOR!" A gravelly voice screamed, before its owner leapt into the air and fired at the ground beneath him. He soared into the air with a gleeful warcry and smoking boots, aiming yet more rockets at distant specks of blue.
"Ngghh..." RED Medic ground his teeth in frustration. Every damned time he followed the berserking Soldier into the fight, the battle-crazy idiot would forget he was there at some point and abandon him in the middle of contested territory. The man was, without a doubt, effective in a rather crude and bombastic way, but he most definitely made Medic's job a lot harder than it needed to be.
Soldier (RES016/d): Various mental problems, suggested schizotypal personality, if not full schizophrenia. Slight deafness in the 4-5kHz range due to years of proximity to explosions. Has a deep and abiding obsession with firearms and can be unpredictably violent. Wanted for manslaughter in Poland. Works for RED in return for promise of amnesty.
Cover...he needed to find cover. Medic had no illusions about his ability to survive a one-on-one fight against the various trained mercenaries employed by BLU. He knew he was a valuable member of the RED team even though he was no fighter. Thankfully, though, Dust Bowl had no shortage of corridors, piles of refuse or just plain old big stones to hide behind.
"We have lost the control point. The enemy has been rewarded additional time." A disdainful voice boomed through the poor quality PA system that surrounded the battlefield. No matter what happened, the Administrator, as they called her, always sounded vaguely disgusted with the mercs who lived, killed and died on her command. Repeatedly.
What a place. What an insane, stupid and pointless war. There was...was there? Yes! A shimmer of blue, to the left, before the RED Pyro stepped into view.
RED Pyro (REP004/j): A pyromaniac, needless to say, but also a social phobic. Severe asthmatic from years of breathing dust in the Li & Fung Ltd. factory. Many burn scars. Wanted in the USA for involvement in the distribution of controlled substances (Lysergic acid diethylamide). Works for RED in return for promise of amnesty.
Medic snarled, reaching for his syringe gun. He hated that BLU Spy! He didn't even like that Hurensohn of a Spy who was supposedly on his own side, and certainly did not trust his BLU counterpart. They made his neck tingle with a strange, creeping dread. He had always had this gut feeling that Spy was his most dangerous enemy, although he couldn't say why.
RED Spy (REY050/a): No particular health issues of note. Has undergone extensive reconstructive surgery on his face for unknown reasons, but most likely as part of a witness protection scheme. Has a wide-ranging intelligence network that seems impossible to compromise or infiltrate. Keep away from any sensitive information. Works for RED in return for the promise of a new identity.
"Mrrddk!" Pyro called, giving him a friendly wave, but Medic swung towards him and squeezed the trigger of his syringe gun, peppering that rubber suit with little red needles. The rubber shimmered, and faded into the form of the skinny BLU Spy.
"Merde." The Spy said casually, sounding about as annoyed as if there was a queue for the cinema, rather than having been punctured with poison-filled needles. He reached for his pistol, but before he could fire, Medic dived for the ground and scrabbled at his belt for his saw. It was a crude weapon, lacking the style and versatility of the syringe gun, but it was certainly simple to use. However, there was a bang and Medic's arm spasmed and his fingers lost their grip on the saw as his chest blossomed into warmth. He gasped for breath at the impact of the bullet, and heard his breath bubble as blood surged up his throat and spilled out of his mouth as red foam. He was drowning, gasping and struggling to get his breath and he felt his limbs spasm as he sprawled on the sandy ground. Lung shot. Dying. Drowning. His chest forced him to take a gurgling unsatisfactory breath. How strange it was that the body would continue to strive to stay alive when the mind knew there was no point. Why not give up and save on futile agony? The blue sky filled with bright stars and turned grey, then a timeless nothing.
There was a crack and Medic found himself lying flat on his back, staring at a familiar white-tiled ceiling. A fluorescent light buzzed and flickering annoyingly.
"Oh man, not you again. You ok, Doc?" A voice with a slightly nasal, American accent stated. "Look, if ya gonna live here, couldn't you at least fix that dumb light?"
RED Scout (REC012/f): Only known health issues are occasional migraines. Extreme extrovert, which led to his involvement in the Boston Irish Gang War. Wanted by the police for questioning regarding several turf killings, although it is unknown if he was directly involved, or only a witness. Works for RED in return for certain large bribes to the Boston Police Department.
"Hmmph." Medic blinked watering eyes and taking measured, deep breaths. Respawn was a miracle of technology, bringing them back from death time and again, but it was most certainly not pleasant. It was an old joke on the RED team that when they died, they didn't kick the bucket- they filled it. It felt like a very brief, but terrible hangover, complete with dry mouth, raging thirst, thudding headache and churning stomach. There was, indeed, a covered plastic bucket in the respawn room, just in case. It was something of a rite of passage- once a merc had lost his stomach contents on respawn, then he was truly one of the team. As Sniper had once said: The team that pukes together, stays together. The Australian had snickered at his own humour and Spy had rolled his eyes sourly at his crudeness.
RED Sniper (REN034/e): One of the more mentally stable mercenaries, seems to have chosen to work as an assassin as an adjunct to his original career as a hunter in the Australian Bush, presumably for the money. Although otherwise healthy, has a rare congenital condition that has rendered him immune to the effects of Australium. As a result of this, he is something of a pariah in his native country, although his work as a hitman has not yet caused legal problems. Works for RED in return for a USA immigration permit.
"I notice you are in here too, Scout, so presumably you vish to share." Medic replied sourly, standing up and reaching for the pitcher of water that was always present in the respawn room. He poured himself a shaky glass and downed it in one gulp before giving Scout a narrow smile. "Perhaps you could perch on my shoulders to help? Considering you couldn't reach ozherwise."
Scout snorted derisively and ran a hand through his blonde hair. "I was just getting more ammo, numbnuts. So..you usin' the Quickfix today?" His voice gained a slightly hopeful tone, but Medic shook his head firmly.
"Nein. After zhe incident with the Soldier and zhe sawmill, I prefer to keep zhat under lock and key. Not to mention zhe number of times I've been introduced to zhe very hard valls of various buildings due to the misjudgement of Demo."
RED Demolitions Expert (RED001/n): Exhibits all the symptoms of shell-shock and is a chronic alcoholic. Sometimes displays suicidal ideation. Lost one eye in an unfortunate childhood accident. Highly knowledgeable with regard to high-energy chemical reactions and ballistics, but seems to have very few interests outside this. Exhibits some delusional behaviour with regards to supernatural myths and legends. Wanted by the Wester Ross, Strathpeffer and Lochalsh Police Force for charges relating to property damage. Works for RED in return for promise of amnesty.
"Oh man, that was fuckin' hilarious." Scout gave a snorting snotty laugh that made Medic scowl. "Ah, c'mon, it was. You screamed like a little girl. Ehh...ok you didn't see the funny side I guess." He sighed and reached into the resupply cupboard, grabbing a handful of shotgun pellets and shoving them into his bag.
"Alert! Our final control point is being captured!" The Administrator's voice sang out, the quality in the small room slightly better than it was out in the open air of the main battle field.
"Whaaaaat? That is such bullshit. There is so way those fuckin' BLUs are getting that point, it's only just outside! Stick with me Doc, let's get 'em!"
"Ja, ja, I'm coming." Medic grumbled, standing up and grabbing his medi-gun. The respawn hangover had mostly cleared now, and since Scout was right in front of him, he might as well heal him and build up an übercharge. In these control point battles, it had to be said that Scout- if he would stay in range of Medic and let him verdammt heal him, was very useful. This was the last contested area of Dust Bowl, and all RED had to do was keep this last point to win the war.
Scout and Medic burst out of the door to the sound of gunfire. Scout cursed in disgust at the grinning BLU Scout running circles around the control point, and shot a few rounds off with his sawn-off shotgun, making their enemy leap back, spin in midair and sprint off back into the maze of ochre coloured buildings, shooting buckshot back in the rough direction of the point. Medic ducked hurriedly as ricochets pinged and zapped around the metal scaffolding surrounding the point and then sighed as Scout gave a gleeful cry and zoomed off towards the distant splodge of blue. Medic looked around quickly to see who else he could shadow. His healing often made the difference between life and death, since his medigun could heal bullet-wounds almost instantly, the bullets spitting their way out of the skin as the person's body rejected them in disgust, but in order to actually heal someone, they had to be present. Control point fights like this were the most entertaining for him, since the team tended to keep close together (except for Scout, Soldier, Sniper and Spy...), giving him plenty of chances to heal their various fascinatingly gruesome injuries and keep himself occupied without dying.
"Hey, Doc." There was a metallic clang as Engineer hit his sentry. It looked up at him, beeped and a rocket-filled box popped out of the top of its main body. It then beeped again and wiggled like a happy puppy. Engineer grinned, his cheeks wrinkling around the safety goggles that protected his eyes from random shards of metal.
Red Engineer (REE042/b): Possesses genius-level intelligence and excellent social awareness. Although generally well-balanced and friendly, can become erratic if hypoglycaemic. Suffers from Type I diabetes mellitus, but even with this health problem is too valuable an employee to retire from the battlefield. Has stated that he is wanted by an individual whose name he will not divulge in relation to intellectual property theft. Works for RED in return for protection from prosecution.
"Guten tag, Engineer." Medic said in return. He liked the Engineer. Everyone liked the engineer, he was that sort of man. In many ways, he was the de facto leader of their RED team, simply because he was able to stop them murdering each other on a daily basis. One of the best threats on the base was 'Engie wouldn't like it if you did that'. However, Medic had found the Engineer to be, in many ways, a kindred spirit and they had spent many nights discussing new plans and ideas for machinery or medical equipment. They were both inventors, and had done a lot of work on the various technologies that had led to the respawn system. Engineer was one of the few people he could talk to who didn't develop that familiar politely blank look after a few minutes of conversation with the doctor. Engineer was probably unaware of it, but Medic always kept a close eye on him on the battlefield- with his relatively poor health, it seemed only fair, especially since the man's machines could easily make the difference between victory and failure. Medic considered him the second most valuable member of the team. After himself, of course.
"Doktor!" A deep gravelly voice with a thick Russian accent called joyously. "You respawn again? Was it BLU Spy again?"
"Ja." Medic turned and gave a fond smile to his dearest friend. Heavy was both taller and far more muscled than he was- an absolute giant of a man. In fact, he towered over the entire team. If they had been allowed to take group photos, heavy's head would have ended up being cropped out of every single one. It was fascinating, really, and Medic had often wondered about the biological reasons for his vast size. His confidential medical records made no mention of acromegaly or any similar conditions. So, presumably, it was simply a matter of genetics.
RED Heavy Weapons Expert (REH009/h): Hugely strong and tall, but also possesses considerable mechanical knowledge. Avoidant personality type- removes the need to discuss an obviously painful past by personifying objects of importance to him. No known health problems, but has many small fracture calluses indicative of a violent past. Is considered враг народа (enemy of the people) in the USSR. Works for RED in return for officially recognised status as a political refugee.
Medic pointed the gun at his friend, feeling it thrum into action in his hands as it locked onto its target and then retreated around the corner, out of sight of the enemy guns. There was no sound except for the measured beeping of Engineer's sentry device and the whirring of Heavy's powered-up minigun. The sentry suddenly swung around and launched a couple of rockets and Heavy followed the movement and shot off a quick round of bullets in the same direction, and then gave a savage, toothy grin at the distant scream. Medic found himself sharing the same grin. The Russian's cheerful enthusiasm always cheered him up- it was oddly infectious, seeing someone take such pleasure in their job, even if that job was murdering people. There was another deep cry from the sky as Soldier came soaring from God-knows where to land with a metallic clang on the roof above them. The burly man leapt off the roof and landed neatly next to Heavy.
"Private, report."
"Privyet, Soldier, but my name is not Report."
"No, I said 'Private'. Don't start that commie crap."
"And I said 'Privyet' too. What is problem?"
Heavy gave Soldier an innocently blank stare and Engineer looked down and grinned at his steel-capped boots. Medic felt the corners of his mouth twitch too. It was often hard to tell, with Heavy, whether he was deliberately appearing teasing someone or genuinely lacking understanding. Medic suspected that, to Heavy, this was all some sort of complex joke. That, of course was where those confidential reports on each of his teammates fell short. They were dry, short, psychological and physiological profiles designed to help him, as the team's Medic, do his job on a day to day basis. However, they lacked subtlety, and, in some cases such as his own, were just plain wrong.
RED Medic (REM029/b): A highly creative individual prone to sudden intuitive leaps in thinking rather than pursuing careful scientific methodology, but still seeing himself as a man of science. Neurotic, socially inept and prone to crippling perfectionism. No reported health problems but it is entirely possible that he self-medicates without updating his own medical files. Has been summoned before various ethics committees regarding medical treatment of guards and officers at the Hutchinson Internment Camp in 1941, 1942(twice) and 1943. Works for RED in return for promise of amnesty.
"Woohoo! Here they come!" Scout came running back to the point, weaving a zig zag pattern to avoid getting shot. "Fuckton O' BLUs, headed this way!" The young man backflipped to land delicately by the Soldier and loaded more shells into his shotgun.
"Comin' through! Scuse me, doc." A tanned hand suddenly pushed Medic back, firmly but politely and Medic held his breath as the smell of fermented apples washed over him. Demo pointed his grenade launcher and fired sticky bombs in a line in front of the point before retreating to join Medic in the corridor. He gave the german a grin and waved his sticky bomb launcher, his teeth looking very white in his dark face. "Let the others take the damage, eh?"
Medic nodded, trying to smile and not breathe at the same time.
"Niiir hrrw." A quiet voice murmured, and Pyro- the real one this time, not a spy- appeared from around the corner of the concrete building, tipping his head on one side like an inquisitive dog. He shuffled into a corner and crouched, ready to incinerate anyone who got too close.
Engineer glanced at his watch. "Only gotta hold this point for 'nother fifteen minutes, and we're done. Where's the rest of the fellas?"
"Right behind you." A soft, lilting voice called out of midair. Medic and Engineer both started slightly, and Medic made a small irritated hissing noise.
Spies. Gottverdammt, missgeburt wertlos Fettbacken!
"Gotcha covered, mates." A voice called from overhead. There was a sudden loud bang. "Ha! Run that one off, ya pesky ankle-biter! Roight, here they come!"
Medic couldn't see many of his brothers-in-arms from where he was hidden, but he knew they were there and that he could rely on them all. They all so much in common: they were all outcasts from normal society, either by choice or through plain bad luck. All of them were hunted or disparaged by those who made the rules to suit themselves.
And yet, they were each completely unique individuals with their own talents, strengths and weaknesses.
Or were they?
Why had he thought that? Medic frowned in puzzlement, but the pop-pop sound of a grenade launcher announced the BLU team arriving in full force and there was no more time to think beyond the moment and figure out who to heal next and whom to leave to die and respawn.
Medic felt his mouth stretch into a wide, some would say demented, grin.
He loved this part.
In Chapter Two: Scout ponders on the oddities of life as a mercenary, and Demo shows off his knowledge of poetry. No, seriously. Hey, why are you running away?
Privyet - Hello
Gottverdammt, missgeburt wertlos Fettbacken! - God-damned, bastard, worthless dirtbags!