A/N: I love Team Fortress 2, like you wouldn't imagine. I've been so fixated on this game and my Steam account for the entire summer, looking up on its Wikipedia site on anything and everything about TF2. This is based on Valve's Loose Cannon comic. Plus, this is a bit of a test run; I've never done chapter fanfictions because I'm in fear of not finishing them, but I'll try to give this one a shot; this is kind of a test run to see if I do actually dedicate myself to it, haha. Hope you guys like. No slash in this btw.

All names and companies mentioned © TF2 & Valve Corp.

Just because we fight for something, doesn't mean that it's important.

. . .

Chapter I.

The room was quiet, to say the least.

Within the ranch lay still the dead body of Zepheniah Mann in his mahogany casket, encircled by his trustworthy maidservant Elizabeth with the famed Barnabas Hale, and plagued by the presence of his two useless sons. Indulging in the announcement of Mr. Mann's last will, his belongings were parceled out evenly and fairly to those who occupied the room based on importance. Mentioned last in the man's testament was the bitter words for his sons Redmond and Blutarch, to whom which did nothing but argue over bits and pieces of the prestigious Mann Company. What was left behind by their old man was a curse of partnership, a sealed deal of having to learn to share the company.

"The Passing of 1850" was the populace's widespread talk of the horribly sick-induced death of the founder of Mann Company, the crafters of fine, lethal weaponry with strong continuity to be manufactured to present day. Under the jurisdiction of TF Industries it still prospers from occasional custom orders for governmental purposes, however the products' usage is most often for internal, personal disputes within the company itself. In short, Mann Co.'s business was forever fated to slowly deteriorate from the inside out, from the founder's own offspring.

" 'What land I have purchased in this new world is to be split evenly between you both…' ," read his attorney. The twins look at each other skeptically, overlooking the permanent scowl held on their father's dried, lifeless lips.

" '…You have wasted your lives bickering over nothing.' "

Delmond Conagher awoke from his slumber, greeted by the all-too familiar odor of oil and rusting metal of his own private workshop. Hands fumbled around his mattress, brushing off crumpled, obsolete blueprints and records as he propped himself upright. He heard the faint sounds of the morning sirens—he thanked God for being on the lowest level of BLU's base to sleep—and donned his hard hat, blue uniform and overalls. He left his goggles to remain on his work desk; those were saved for later, for when his name held no importance on the battlefield.

Dell considered himself lucky for being deployed most of the time in Teu Fort; he enjoyed relaxing in the air conditioned portion of the base, with his sentries and the Intelligence. Though, it soon became dull and tedious to babysit everything and almost felt like solitary confinement alone in that office. Then again, he felt as if he was summoned there by his own wary subconscious. He knew he had significance in this place.

It was people like him who mattered most to the company. People who could create successful products and projects with precise planning and an inkling of what they're doing. That's why their rivals hired those shape shifters from well-trained espionage companies—for surveillance, and to take his ideas and destroy them in the making. Then again, that's why his team did the same. He was unaware of what his RED counterpart thought of, of how his thought process and imagination worked, and that's why BLU Spies were employed—to find out.

Dell knew precisely how TF Industries worked, because he's the only one who has met the head of the Builders League United and several higher-ups; he even had a brief glance at that old woman who spouts nonsense over the telecom of their base at one point, which was a rare occurrence indeed. None of his teammates understood who, or especially what they were truly fighting for: nonsense.

The majority of his team had almost no point of being here, other than playing around with guns, explosives, and knives because it's not legal to do it anywhere else. It's a big boy camp, where you can bleed and die as much as you want for fun, and do the same unto the other team. That's the tagline they used in their flyers, and in the end they got what they wanted: trigger-happy men from almost every continent. The mechanical man thought it was crossing the line when younglings like the Scout were allowed onboard. The money was of nothing to argue over; people were paid to wallow in their sadism.

Capture Points and briefcases become taken and re-taken because the head of the RED and BLU companies were fueled by stubbornness. Blutarch and Redmond Mann persist on fighting, and that's why this war exists. Because they still exist. Because Grandfather Conagher built those damn life-extenders for the both of them for a single bribe of pounds of a golden, valuable substance, and these blind, fighting men and that Scout kid are forever stuck fighting in this hell hole—

"Engineer! Set up your machinery in ze Intelligence Room; they've begun moving."

Yes, that's right. They've never called him by name on the battlefield.

Delmond Conagher strapped the goggles around his eyes and fastened them in a comfortable, snug fix. He took ahold of his wrench, his guns, wires, and boxes of pre-built sentries, lugging his supplies along and followed the Spy out the door.

This was the daily, mundane routine of Mann Co. Truth be told, he was tired. The Engineer was tired. Wasting his eleven science PhD's and marvelous potential all on some children's century-long tantrums on not getting what they've asked for. If Redmond and Blutarch were not going to die out alone all due to the aid and idiocy of his own generation, then he was going to take matters into his own hands.

He'd have to kill them himself.