Disclaimer: I do not own Team Fortress 2. This disclaimer counts for all the chapters of this story.
An announcement.
There was always an announcement.
It was never like the childhood days when a new kid joined the class—never-mind the entire school—without warning. You would just find the newcomer sitting in an empty seat in the classroom, amongst the sea of familiar faces and body shapes and sizes, like a green apple surrounded by red ones. Not much of a difference, one could say—they were all just apples. The reasons for the unexpected arrival of the new person, well, I guess you could say it was so that the students would learn to adapt, so that the new kid would not be welcomed with some mushy overly-friendly treatment, so that everything would be casual, and that the new kid's first friend would have volunteered themselves instead of being nominated by others. At least, that is what most teachers might say.
Might.
But not the Administrator, oh no, she was certainly not a teacher, and she would always give announcements, always gave the mercenaries a reason to live through the day, then she would watch them scramble about like startled flies on a disturbed carcass as they dashed off to protect the contested point or chase after the Scout with the Intelligence. Sometimes, but rarely, would there be wake-up calls—those only happened back in the days, though, when everyone was new—as long as one person was oversleeping away the valuable time that was meant for washing up, changing out and eating breakfast. It was scary to hear her scratchy, spine-chilling voice over the power amplifier system, threatening them in the most sickly-sweet way with a 'Good morning, gentlemen, I do hope everyone had a comfortable sleep last night, because if any one of you scum are still in their rooms, rest assure that none of will be sleeping well for the next few weeks'. During battle, her announcements were fine, appreciated, even, despite the fact that those announcements would still send them scrambling around the entire area.
Like startled flies on a disturbed carcass.
Most of the time that scary Cruella De Vil lady would send her assistant to give announcements and instructions for whatever proceedings were to happen. That young lady—Miss Pauling—she was like a pre-evolution of that old woman with the same shade of purple in her closet, those sharp green eyes and black hair (though granted that the Administrator has a streak of white through hers; must be fashion). The petite lady would visit each Team's barracks every month for the usual checks and reports, and occasionally notify the mercenaries about news and updates outside the fortress.
It had never really crossed the Administrator's mind to hold back those announcements—for shocks, maybe; for surprises, no, never. As far as literature goes, shocks were negative, and surprises were positive. The line was as thin as the one separating tension and suspense, why care about it?
Though, a voice would interrupt, why not see the baffled, idiotic faces of wide eyes and gaping mouths of pure confusion and, well, shock? Those morons had been working together for several years since recruitment, and from what Miss Pauling had informed her, they had adapted to living together (rather difficult for the loners like the Sniper and secretive ones like the Spy) and had even arranged an unclear blur of a working schedule.
Amusingly so, they even arranged a timetable for meals. The rations were not as interesting, perhaps, but from what the Administrator thought, they might have been trying to visit the small town outside.
Might.
Would not have been unexpected, really; not a shock nor a surprise.
So, why not, just for once, just to see their shocked faces?
Of course, Miss Pauling would explain everything—and tell her what they said in reaction. Cameras could only see, not hear.
It was just a minor change in her plans, which, save for her ever loyal assistant, no one knew about. Nothing too hard to switch or adjust, just one extra instruction;
Act like nothing was wrong.
Act casual.
"YOU SPINELESS MAGGOTS! YOU DO NOT DESERVE SLEEP OR REST! BACK DURING THE WAR MY COMRADES AND I DIDN'T EVEN GET A WINK OF SLEEP FOR FORTY DAYS!"
Noisy, the typical morning was always noisy.
"An average human vould haf died from exhaustion by zhe fourth day, Soldier,"
Sure, maybe if you managed to get everyone damned person in the BLU barracks to shut up; you might have heard something called silence. Then again, those birds outside and their chirps…
"WE AREN'T TALKING 'AVERAGE' HERE, QUACK! THESE ARE AMERICANS WE'RE TALKING ABOUT-"
The Sniper used to shoot those birds whenever he was bored. They were much quieter now. You know, dead.
"I am not a quack, I'm a crazy doctor… zhere's a difference…"
Of course, none of the Medic's doves were ever hurt. Well, not much.
"Oh will you two shut up?!"
Not as though the Australian would bother admitting, being the quiet one he was—quite different from his curse-yelling, threat-screaming colleagues.
"Demo, wake up, a hangover on ceasefire ain't gonna getcha nowhere wi' Solly."
Incoherent grumbles and murmurs were probably much noisier.
"Demo, Ah said wake up before-"
Then again, so were stomping feet, harsh yelling, the smashing of wood and slamming of doors against walls. The Demoman was too drowsy and disoriented by his hangover and the usual feeling of sleepiness when one just woke up to speak. The Engineer quickly shuffled away as the Soldier made his way into the drunkard's room. Upon hearing shuffling feet, the southerner's goggled metal-grey eyes looked behind him, catching the disappearing black shoes of a certain Frenchman cloaking.
"C'mon y'all, it's six in th' mornin', couldn't ya save th' fightin' f'r tomorrow?" he sighed and glanced back into the room, staying put outside as he peered into the room that reeked of strong alcohol and explosives.
Inside the room, the Soldier was dragging the Scotsman off his blue bed and across the dorm floor by the legs. He laughed, throwing his head up slightly and causing his oversized helmet to bump against the bridge of his nose. "HA! AS IF! I GAVE YOU NUMBNUTS THE LIBERTY TO SLEEP PAST FIVE, NOT THE PRIVILEGE TO SLACK!"
The Medic, who had taken his perch at the other side of the doorway, raised an eyebrow in mock interest, his grey eyes glinting. "Und zhe difference being…?"
"YOU STILL HAVE TO GET UP!" With a chortle, the patriot flung his drunken colleague out the door. The other two swiftly retreated by several feet.
The Demoman landed with a thud, propped up by the door behind him—the Pyro's door, to be exact. He groggily clutched his head and moaned. "Argh… stop wi' ye yellin', me hangover's tearin' me apart inside oot if ye keep talkin' so loudly."
The Heavy's head appeared, poking out from his room beside the Pyro's door. As he lumbered out at his usual speed, he gazed at the scene before him, settling on the Demoman as he tried to get up. His dust-grey eyes relaxed but awake. "Battlefield is always noisy, how does-"
"He drinks zhem avay," The Medic waved a hand, dismissing the question casually.
The Russian did not say much other than a not-quite-understanding-but-still-comprehending "Ah," He looked at the others. "Is getting late, let us eat."
"Late? This early, pardner?" the Engineer chuckled good-naturedly, shaking his head.
"YES!" the Soldier exclaimed in agreement, grabbing the Demoman by his turtleneck collar, dragging him along and leading the other four towards the mess hall. The Medic slipped behind the Heavy instinctively despite not being in battle, but partial of the reason was so that he could be further apart from the loud and burly patriot. The Engineer strolled along beside them just a tad in front, adjusting his yellow hardhat for a moment.
The Demoman was beginning to sober up—just a little—by the time they reached the mess hall, regaining his casual competitive-sibling attitude that he sometimes showed to the Soldier; he punched the latter in the shoulder harmlessly as he staggered upright, nearly tripping as he took a step forward. Fortunately the mechanic of the Team quickly caught him by the arm and firmly yanked him backwards. Soldier guffawed and marched on.
"Thanks, boyo," the Scotsman said, shaking his head clear.
"No problem, jus' watch y'r step," the stout man stepped past him. From the corner of his eyes he caught sight of the three—the Demoman, Heavy and Medic—dispersing from the small group.
The Scout's distinguishable voice rang from his corner: "Hey Demo! Didcha jus' trip ovah nothin'?"
"Eh, jus' a flat surface," The liquor cabinet was one bottle emptier.
The Bostonian stifled his chortles as the older man took a seat at the table, Scrumpy in hand. "Keep up da casual act, Cyclops,"
The Demoman just took a swig. The other frowned slightly in disappointment—how hard could it be a strike up and hold a conversation with these geezers? He looked over to the Sniper, whose feet were propped on the table and hat over his eyes. A sleeping Sniper was not exactly a cranky Sniper, right?
"Hey Snipes, do ya evah wonder whe' Spook's at when he ain't with da Team?"
The gangly man remained silent. Scout huffed.
"Ya all old geezers," He planted a bandaged hand on the table and swung his lean body over, feet dangerously close to kicking the Sniper's coffee over. Said person flinched visibly and lifted his hat off to glare at the speedster as he ran off.
"Hey, Stretch!"
The marksman groaned and slumped in his seat even more. "What, Engie?"
"Have you seen Pyro?"
"Why d' you mongrels always think I know where everyone's at?" he snapped.
The Engineer did not blink from behind his goggles. "You watch." he simply said.
The Sniper growled a sigh. "Bloke's outside in the bloody rain, Suit's somewhere else, now let me alone."
The other man shrugged. The perimeter of the base was not exactly that large, most of it consisting of the barracks rather than the—noticeably wrecked by explosions—training fields outside. Finding Pyro should not be that hard, especially in this rainy weather-
"Sphf!"
Never-mind.
The Engineer looked up at the sound of the Pyro's muffled voice despite the latter having not called for him. It came from the hallway, which was echoing with footsteps and a dull, sandy hiss.
The Spy stepped out with the Pyro hot on his fancy dress shoe heels.
With someone new.
The infiltrator gazed at his colleagues in the mess hall, seemingly satisfied that most of them were present. He nudged the stranger forward with a warning jab of his butterfly knife against the other's back before addressing the rest of the Team;
"Found zhis intruder talking with Pyro outside Engineer's workshop,"
"Hfs frrphy!" the firebug protested, waving its gloved hands to exaggerate its annoyance.
The Spy rolled his ash grey eyes and stared skeptically at the other. "He's not part of Mann Co.,"
The stranger raised a finger. "Actually I am-" The knife was nudged again.
The Soldier stormed up to the three and snatched the newcomer up by the collar, rattling him until his homburg hat left off to reveal messy brown hair and a face of scars. "YOU SORRY SON OF A MAGGOT! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST SNEAK INTO THESE HERE BARRACKS OF AMERICAN FIGHTING SPIRIT! IF I HAD MY SHOVEL WITH ME IT'D BE UP YOUR-"
"Solly, calm down, pardner-"
"Lpht gf umph mph frphm!-"
"Pyro, don't-"
"Who is stranger-"
"Ooh… me head-"
Ruff ruff!
"That's not me-"
"Vell, zhis is amusing-"
"Hey guys, whad'I miss-"
A soft click of the PA system surrounding the Team snapped them out and shut them up; they froze in their orderly chaotic positions, staring up at the speakers.
A familiar throaty chuckle slowly filled the mess hall, static hissing softly. "Good morning, gentlemen,"
The Spy redrew his knife. "Madame Administrator,"
"Why's da scary lady talkin' ta us ovah da PA system?" the Scout whispered hoarsely to the nearest mercenary beside him—the Heavy. The big man shrugged his broad shoulders.
"First off: Congratulations on not killing another messenger; it turns out that you imbeciles can actually take in information and apply it. Finally, after all these years."
The Sniper grumbled, slouching back in his seat. The Medic huffed and pushed his round-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"Secondly: Soldier."
The Soldier snorted and dropped the stranger. The latter quickly scrambled upright.
"Thirdly-"
He discarded his rain-damp coat off to expose a miniature television set strapped to his chest, over a pale blue long-sleeved shirt of symmetrical flap pockets, tucked under his deep blue pants that were held up by a black belt, and the pants themselves were tucked into combat boots. A yellow circle decorated each of his sleeves, right on top of his forearms, depicting something similar to a paw print with four small ovals above each toe.
The television lit up.
The Administrator's lips curled into her usual sadistic smile. She continued; "…say hello to your new colleague,"
"Colleague?!" eight voices—including the drunk Demoman's—simultaneously cried at the same time.
"Mph tulf ymf!" the Pyro exclaimed, fingers curling in what seemed like either frustration or triumph.
The aged lady leaned back in her reclining chair, the second thing noticeable in the darkness she was surrounded by. She took a drag on her cigarette before she went on: "You men react in the most amusing ways when not given a notification. Why, if I stopped announcing for a day, you people probably won't even realise that the mission had begun."
"Enough nonsense, Madame Administrator," the Spy stepped towards the black-and-white television set, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Explain."
The woman rolled her green eyes. "This man here is a new Class. An experiment, you could say, since we've yet to confirm everything weapon-wise." She crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. "He will be working with the nine of you for about a week or so." She laced her spindly fingers together. "If you oblivious idiots have yet to notice, the last dorm room is no longer locked."
The stranger grinned lopsidedly, showing off a sharp canine. His dull silver eyes were too friendly for comfort, borderline unnerving with the scars on his face contrasting. "I already locked the two in there, boss,"
She paid him no heed. "Gentlemen,
"Meet the Trainer."
A/N: I swear, I took a really long time writing this with my skills rusty and my life busy, but I've been developing Trainer for nearly ten full months, I figured he should at least be known (also because I don't see that many male OCs in TF2). Ten months of research and tweaking here and there, multiple Mary (or in this case, Gary) Sue tests over and over again like some specimen being observed and experimented or breeding animals until they become favourable and domesticated enough to be released. Inspiration and creativity have abandoned me and handed me over to school stress and family problems, as much as I love writing. Anyway, constructive criticism would be appreciated.
Coming up next: "Might I ask why there is an interrogation going on?"
Pleasant days and peaceful nights.