The air smells like intestines and electricity, charged with the echoes of bullets and desperate, primal screaming. There's laughter too, a hyena-sharp cackle of ecstatic insanity punctuating sparking weapons and invulnerable skin.
The place is a slaughterhouse.
Heavy drops his minigun gently atop a bullet-riddled Pyro, one massive fist wiping the sweat from his brow as he marvels at the carnage. His heart is pounding a still-crackling staccato, muscles burning, but a single twitch of his smallest finger is all that betrays his exhaustion.
Medic looks up from toeing a detached arm, taking in the Russian's wilting posture, and unslings the Medigun, taking a seat on the back of a fallen Demoman. He crooks a finger towards Heavy, indicating the ground in front of him. The larger man sits down gratefully, propping his head up on one hand and trying to ignore his snarling hunger.
The Medigun sparks in protest as Medic rummages in her tubing for a moment, flicking a lever with a hiss of steam, detaching the paneling and reaching inside.
Heavy leans forward with a look of concern. Was it broken...?
Medic's eyes glint victoriously, drawing from within the depths of the Medigun an enormous sandwich and handing it across the makeshift lunchbox to Heavy.
"I love this doctor!"
Prompt: The Medigun is actually a giant lunchbox.
For my lovely (impatient) Medic.