I've had this idea in my head for some time, so I wanted to try writing it down.
This is just the prolougue, but I'll keep updating pretty quickly. I just wanted to get an introduction going before the actual story kicked in. I'd also like to say that I think TF2 is fine as it is, and that I don't think that a Tenth Class is needed.
TF2 belongs to Valve, the OC in here obviously belongs to me.
It was the third time today that the Engineer had been forced to brave the barrage of rockets and gunfire to get a box of metal after his dispenser had gotten sapped.
It was the eleventh time today that the Pyro had just been about to set a retreating Scout on fire when his - or her - flamethrower ran out of ammo.
It was the first time today that the Heavy had just gotten Übered and his minigun started clicking. Only the first time, but still annoying.
There were just not enough supply boxes on the field, and when being without ammo could earn you a respawn trip to the resupply room, it was a problem that definetely wanted a solution.
After several letters, mostly written by the Engineer on behalf of his team, those in command finally got sick of their constant complaint and decided to send a solution to the teams' complaints.
Despite the Scout's best complaining and pointing out that 09:00 Thursday could just aswell mean 13:00 Friday or 21:00 Thursday next week, the whole RED team was gathered by the train tracks, awaiting their new arrival. The only one who seemed to be awaiting them with any sort of enthusiasm, though, seemed to be the Engineer.
And possibly the Pyro if the occasional hudda-hudda and muffled noise was to be intepreted positively.
However, the noise of the incoming train caught the team's attention, and even the Scout managed to stop whining as the train groaned to a halt. After a minute or so, one of the train doors were roughly pulled open, and a large, reddish-brown backpack was thrown out, almost knocking straight into the Medic. Following the bag, a short, irritated looking person climbed out, shut the door, and turned to look at them while the train grumbled into gear and rolled off.
A few awkward moments followed, as the original RED team observed their new teammate, and the new teammate observed them with obvious doubt. The short, slim looking person was dressed basically, in a red tracksuit jacket, bullet proof vest and plain, brown shorts that were cut off just above a pair of very knobbly knees, that had turned red from the cold. They had a round-ish, small face that made them look rather young, with their hair brushed behind their ears in a tight, sensible side parting.
The first one to speak was Sniper, who cleared his throat and reached down for the backpack. "Alright, mate, I'll git yer bag fer ya, an' then we can help git ya sorted out." At that, the rest of the team burst into action, crowding around the new arrival, the Heavy planting a hand on the head of the newest, and shortest, member of RED with a booming laugh, announcing that there was a new 'leetle baby person on team'. The 'leetle baby person' responded with a grunt, swatted their way through the others to the Sniper and grabbed hold of the backpack.
"Alright, get your goddamn hands off of me stuff, Skippy!" The sudden, brash tone and the sharp, British accent cut through the almost jovial mood that had almost managed to form, the Sniper dropping her bag, his mouth setting in a thin line. "I've been awake since four 'ours ago, an' I've been on tha' stinkin' train since then, so I just ain't in the mood fer any funny business, OK?" Lifting their backpack and pulling it on over their shoulders, they turned to meet the rest of the teams steadily getting more apprehensive stares. "Wot?"
"They send us a goddamned LIMEY maggot to help us? HAH! They needed OUR help during the LAST war!" The Soldier yelled, gripping his shovel tighter and frowned. "Send the kid back! This is WAR! We don't need a CHILD for help, we need REAL manpower!" With that, he spat to the side, and stormed back into RED base.
The rest of the team pretty much agreed with him.