Broke Your Stupid Crap, Moron!
Bullets tore into the wood and metal of the sawmill walls as the Red Heavy roared in frustration and emptied the last of his minigun's ammunition. He looked around the relatively empty room, trying to determine whether any of the 200 rounds he had fired had actually hit their mark. There was nobody to be found aside from two dead Spies who had failed to get anywhere near the hulking Heavy, a bloodied corpse of an engineer, still clutching his wrench and inches away from a broken turret, and the bits and pieces of a Soldier who had foolishly tried to rocket-jump out of the room despite being in rough shape.
The Heavy took one more look around.
"Where are you, little man!" He called angrily as he threw aside his minigun, affectionately named Natascha, and pulled out a shotgun.
There was no answer. The Heavy took a few tentative steps towards the door when he thought he heard the pattering of footsteps. He stopped dead, then figured he was hearing things and continued to ease towards the door.
Meanwhile, outside the perimeter of the sawmill, the Blu Scout was watching the Heavy through the open door, silently mocking his thick Russian accent. The Scout and the Heavy were mortal enemies, and at the end of most of their confrontations the Scout ended up without an escape from a hail of minigun rounds.
But today, the Scout was feeling lucky.
He tore into the room and up to the Heavy, who turned around just in time to see a blue blur make a magnificent vault over his head. Without hesitating, the Scout swung his lucky baseball bat at the Heavy's thick bald head. The ensuing impact knocked the Heavy to the floor, nearly unconscious. The Scout stood over him and grinned a childish grin as he raised his bat for one final swing to the face.
But unfortunately, this was the Scout's weakness. His severe arrogance and overconfident nature. The Heavy gripped his shotgun in one hand and fired it into the Scout's kneecap, shattering it.
"Aah, shit! Shit, man!" The Scout screamed in pain as he fell, dropping his bat and gripping his bloody leg. "Look, I'm sorry, brother! I'm sorry!"
The Heavy got up slowly, taking his time and allowing the puny little Brooklyn boy to suffer. He stood over the scared young man with a sinister grin, casting a huge shadow.
"MY FISTS, THEY ARE MADE OF STEEL!" He screamed, dropping the shotgun and hitting the Scout with a brutal right hook.
The Scout flew into a nearby wall and crumpled. He didn't move, save for an occasional twitch. The Heavy let out a booming laugh as he began to walk out of the sawmill. He reached into his pocket and took out a baloney "sandvich," taking a bite as he went.
The Scout rolled over weakly, moaning in utter agony. His ribs were broken, and he had lost a few teeth from the Heavy's punch, but he'd live. His leg was a mess, but the Medic back at base could probably take care of it.
"Yo, big guy!" He called a bit hoarsely to the Heavy.
The Heavy turned around to look at him.
"I choose to spare you this time, but next time, YOU ARE DEAD!" He mimed taking out a pistol and shooting it at the Scout, then turned and left.
The Scout contemplated this. Were the Reds really the soulless drones of an evil army as he had been taught? Or did they actually have the ability to show compassion?
"Nah!" The Scout thought as he plugged a full clip of pistol rounds into the back of the Heavy's bald head. The Heavy dropped to the floor, clearly dead. The Scout got up shakily and hobbled over to the body. He looked at the blank face of the dead man, took a deep breath and yelled;
"BOINK!"