There was once a team in Team Fortress 2. It consisted of the best and brightest players. It was formidably armed and equipped, full of master tacticians and clever people. Their aim was true. Each habitually downed at least twenty before falling, and could rocket jump like the soldiers in the trailer. They were, in short, the bee's knees. The best. The elite. The cream of the crop. The business. Six of the hardiest, bravest, boldest, nerdiest people ever to walk the Earth.
This story does not concern them. It talks about this bunch instead…
"Good morning, gentlemen," the spy said, materialising right behind an engineer. The line of advancing heavies turned and levelled mini guns at him.
Mindless, obese, sweating vermin. Replaced their brains for guns. Gnnh. Morons. The world is being corrupted by such people. Possible homosexuals. Deserves looking in to he thought.
"Me want to give him Sacha," one of them grunted. A long line of engines revved up.
"You see," the spy went on, "I have broken this man's finger." He did. The engineer howled in pain and keeled over, but the spy kept a firm hold. "I have broken his middle finger now," the spy continued. There was a sharp crack, and the engineer was writhing.
"Please god, pwn this bastard," he moaned, earning another broken finger.
"I shall continue to break fingers," the spy said, "until you hand over the intelligence." The heavies scratched their heads.
"But we can't pick up da shootcase, mistuh-" they grunted
"Rawfish," the spy said. "Gnnh. Where is the intelligence?"
"In the base, mistuh fish," the heavies said. "You know it's there." They dumbly stepped forwards. "We're real angry with you now."
Rawfish was congratulating himself on skilfully drawing the heavies into his sinper's line of fire, and was just composing an appropriately objectivist quip, when a total lack of rifle shots cracked. He shrugged, adjusted his suit, and went for his magnum. There was a dull rattle of minigun fire, an agonised scream, and then silence.
Then there was a call. The email beeped. "Go onto MSN to join my clan," it said. Rawfish obeyed.
Rawfish arrived in the server, to find a conversation in full swing. A guy called Cecil was discussing Kant with a certain Bubba, who didn't appear to be that interested. Another man was pressing the "jolt" button and lolling with glee when he was sworn at by the others.
"Good morning," Rawfish said. "I'm here for the clan. Gnnh."
"You're in," said Capapias. "Shall we have a game now?"
"HELL YEAH!" came a huge voice. "LET'S KICK SOME ASS!" This was from a fellow called Doctor S. T. Octagonist.
And with that cry, the newly formed Magnificent not Quite Seven set forth.
The final player turned out to be a sniper by the name of Hermann von Cluckenmeister. He stood up and shyly waved as the team entered the 2Fort headquarters. "Hallo," he said. "Does anyone want any tea?"
This was far from what I had expected from a sniper. An engineer is used to thinking of snipers as psychotic loonies, who enjoy nothing more than roasting small children over the fires caused by fragile, steel, hastily built structures exploding. I could tell that this was a man of decency and honour. In another life, he would have been a flower presser, or perhaps a diplomat. I liked him very much, as I toiled away, walloping my turret with a wrench. It's odd. I hit the turret with a wrench, and it sprouts new guns. But when the enemy scout discharges two barrels of buckshot into its metal derriere, it seems to explode in short order.
But anyway, the sniper was very nice. He had my taste in South African bush hats, and provided tea and cakes for me as I tried to figure out where I could give the soldiers the most of my twin fifties. But he was most certainly not sniper material. I expected someone like the Jackal, or the new James Bond. But he was far more appropriate than the Heavy.
Cecil was found in earnest discussion with an audience of enemy scouts, about the inner meanings of The Lord of the Flies.
"Well, listen here," he said, waving a huge hand earnestly. "In my mind, the beast represents the- ouch! Be off me, you brute, do!" This was to a Scout placing twelve nine mm rounds into his huge chest. "Anyway, the beast is the inner darkness of the human race in all of our souls." I stopped playing to write that down in my GCSE notebook, before giving the scouts the benefit of my shotgun. "Stop that! You're hurting the poor boys!" he called out, as I cackled insanely by pressing the taunt button, before pulling out my revolver and capping another fast moving target. "Well, you deserved everything you got, you beast," he went on, as a scout went for me with a baseball bat. I shotgun butted the adolescent into submission, before kicking him in the face for good measure. My god, but I hate scouts.
I was just feeling satisfied with myself, when there was a crack, and I zoomed in on the sardonic face of the sniper who'd just potted me. I came to understand that Cluckenmeister had drawn a bead on him, but stopped to wave amiably. My god, but I hate snipers.
This brings me on to the medic.
"I'll give you cover fire, SUH!" Doctor Octagonist roared, slamming to attention. He had been sharpening his bone saw on a tooth, and was looking extremely vicious. "The red's won't know what hit 'em! And if it wasn't for our boys in Omaha, you goose stepping bastards would have all the whole god damn planet now! So give me some respect!" This was an instinctive conversation topic, which he turned to whenever our faithful sniper entered the room. He had apparently killed everything from "the Kaiser to the Commies", so he was well qualified to fight. The only problem was that he had chosen the worst possible class to use. He would sit around camp fires, and tell us for hours how he had killed twelve or thirteen dozen Sturmwaffen with a broken bayonet, or had gravity gunned his way through an angry mob of elite combine troops. But when the firing started, this all changed.
His favourite tactic was to try and set up a punji pit with his syringes. When this failed, he would yell at the top of his voice, and run at the enemy attacking force. He would be riddled with bullets, and then dropped dead in about two seconds. I am given to understand that he and Cecil used the same internet café, and their connections swapped.
Anyway, I decided to take him along, as long as Cecil came too. Laying a teleporter was hard enough, but at the good Doctor appeared to be the only man who could make Cecil fire a shot.
We set off at ten o clock in the evening, the three of us. Oh, and the scout. Bubba ran around randomly, pulling faces, cartwheeling, and generally making the enemy snipers waste dozens of bullets trying to get a chest shot. "You can't shoot like that, boy!" he called up. "Ya dang fool! Who d'ya think ya are? You cain shoot fa shit!"
Then, true to form, a sniper performed a great service to humanity by getting the capering little man in the face.
Somewhat cheered, I raced into the left entrance, and put the pad down. I stood up and turned to my two henchmen. "Do you know what to do?" I asked politely.
"Hell yeah, Capapias, sir!" the good doctor said, slamming to attention. "Stand here, and kill any commie bastards who come your way!"
"Yes. I think I will keep out of sight, and occasionally see if the doctor is all right," Cecil said, reaching for a first aid kit.
I rolled my eyes heavenwards. "Yes, that is correct in principle, but the other way around. Doctor, you stand out of sight, and heal Cecil." I said it slowly, and clearly. Both stood speechless.
"I didn't fight through Omaha and 'nam just to get told to stand back, boy! Classes don't mean squat, when the commies and Nazis are shooting atcha, and- STOP MINCING ABOUT, YOU DAMNED QUEER!" This last statement was to Cecil. "GET IN THAT GOD DAMNED CORRIDOR, AND KILL EVERY RED BASTARD WHO COMES THROUGH!"
Cecil was about to say that violence was beneath him, but Doctor Octagonist breathed in again, so he reluctantly stood in the corridor, gun ready.
"I'll see what's happening," I said. At least I was about to, but then a volley of bullets slashed past my face. The counter attack had come.
Doctor Octagonist roared with fury, and charged down the corridor, blasting away with his syringes. The shocked enemies- a brace of scouts, and a heavy- stepped back for a moment, and then he vanished into the gun smoke. I would love to say that he was never seen again, but his white coated corpse crashed back about two seconds later. Cecil was down, looking at his broken fingernails from a stray scattergun blast.
My god, but I hate heavies.
I levelled my shotgun and fired. The scout had just dived across the corridor, aiming his pistol, and was snatched back. I fired again, and again. I staggered as the first shotgun blast hit home, but caught my assailant in the chest. I began to reload, saw the heavy coming, and drew my pistol instead.
I fired. My god, but I fired. I put round after round into the huge figure blocking the corridor, into the chest, and head. Anywhere. The gun kicked back once, twice, a third time, until it clicked empty. I had hardly scratched the heavy. I think this was because of the weird blue light flowing into him. If the NHS was half as good as the blue light, we'd be free of plague for ever.
I looked around as the huge gun swung down. I could hear a huge, prolonged scream from upstairs. That was Rawfish. So that left me facing a tower of Slavic muscle and broken teeth.
Which smiled, as the gun was about to fire.
Then the world seemed to explode from under me.
A demoman sauntered in, reloading his grenade launcher. A voice came through SKYPE a moment later. "That was such a noobish thing to so. Ohmygosh! You're, like, so not l33t!" It was a female, American voice.
Dreamygirl had arrived on the team.
What has Rawfish done? Will Cecil ever fire a shot in anger? How did Dreamygirl arrive on the scene? Find out in the next instalment!