The Guardian

Hey! Guess what! It's an author's note! Okay, so first FanFic ever, yay! Big milestone. I'm still new to the whole chapter thing, and don't expect regular updates because life.

All characters are owned by Valve and none of them are of my creation other than the Guardian.

All reviews are welcome, but if you must criticize, please make constructive criticism.

"Call me Ishmael."

An identical boy to the one that just spoke sighs inwardly. "You've read this book out loud to me at least sixteen times."

The older twin by two minutes punches him in the shoulder. "It's a good book. Deal with it." His grin cuts through the memory.

The Guardian jolts awake in the middle of the night. Why had that particular memory come into his brain at this moment? He grumbles as he looks to the side, reminding himself that he's not home anymore. It all started a week ago, and now he's in the middle of nowhere. No, not nowhere, he thinks. New Mexico.

He had received a letter from "TF Industries." He had yet to guess what the "TF" stood for. Upon opening it, he got a form asking for his medical information and a note that said, "Fill this out and you will get a well-paid job. Bring it to 1337 TF Drive. We will answer what we can once you arrive. We will expect you on Mar. 27. Have a good day."

It was shady, now that he reflected upon it, but he and his family were under financial stress and he didn't have a stable job currently. He brought it up during dinner with his wife, but she didn't like the idea of him working so far away ("in the middle of New Mexico, in a DESERT, for goodness' sakes!"). He snuck out of the house on Mar. 26 and traveled to the giant building (the only one that looked as if it held people and not just warehouses) in the middle of TF Drive. As he entered the "MANN CO. HQ," he noticed immediately that no one was there. The small fountain sitting at the desk of presumably where a receptionist worked trickled on merrily, ignoring his discomfort.

The nameplate on the desk read "JAMIE." However, this "Jamie" was nowhere to be found. Uncomfortably, he hesitantly sat down in one of the lobby chairs. Instantly, he somehow sensed that the elevator had just left from one of the top floors. His head snapped to the elevator, but it had not arrived yet nor had it shown any signs of opening.

Rubbing his arm, he settled back into the chair. I should probably get more sleep, he thought.

A bright, cheery "ding" brought him into focus as the elevator arrived. A sprightly young woman stepped out briskly, a clipboard tucked into the nook of her arm and a pencil tucked behind her ear.

She turned and saw him. "Ah, our new employee. I'm assuming you have a lot of questions. But… first, the form?"

Wordlessly, he handed over the forms. She took them and, clipping them onto the clipboard, also slid out another sheet of paper.

"A FAQ, of sorts… Sorry if it seems extremely formal but if you have any other questions not answered on that sheet then you may ask me. It saves time."

He nodded, and glanced back over the page. Some of his most prodding questions were answered, like what kind of work this was, what he was to be doing, and possible benefits.

"Not a man of many words, are you? Not like Scout. Chattered on throughout the whole process."

Glancing again at the page, he also saw who his teammates would be. Scout, he mused. A Bostonian runner and baseball lover.

"Just sign that line down there if you're ready." She handed him a pen which had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

After finishing the page, he looked up. "Just one question."

"Yeah?"

"What's your name?"

"The name's Pauling. Ms. Pauling. I work for the Administrator. You do too, if you sign. The pay's very good, as you've seen on the page."

He certainly had marveled at the amount of money. A bar of Australium, and a 900K paycheck per year. The paychecks were dished out in intervals every week.

"A real bar of Australium?"

"Oh, sorry about that. We keep meaning to get rid of that but never find the time. It's only when you do something great during the year, something commendable."

Hm. Well, still, good prospects. He stood up, deftly signed the line, and shook Ms. Pauling's hand. "Nice doing business with you."

"Great! We'll bring you to your teammates now, and implant the genetic code-reader in."

Wait, what?

Ms. Pauling raised her arm, revealing a small tranquilizer gun hidden within her sleeve. "Sorry about this."

Lights out.

He woke up on an examining table, with a man in glasses leaning over him. "Ah, you've avoken. Nice to meet you. I am zee Medic."

The Medic smiled. "Now, I vill bring you to meet zee rest of your team."

The door opened, revealing a waiting room of sorts. The only person occupying the space was a large, giant of a man. He looked up from his giant minigun as they exited.

"Ah, doktor! How is leetle man doing?"

The Medic gestured to him. "Vell, let's let him answer for himself."

He waved. "Feeling good, doc."

"Good, good! Kome, let us eat Sandviches."

The Russian raised an eyebrow at the Medic. "Are you koming too, doktor?"

"Ah, vell, sure, vhy not?"

Oh, right. The Russian Heavy Weapons Guy. Heavy for short. And apparently he was inviting him to eat a sandwich?

The Heavy led them into a break room, where a black Scot and a man wearing a bucket - no, wait, just a helmet - over his eyes were having an arm wrestling match. A bottle (branded XXX) of what appeared to be alchohol sat next to the Scot and the other man screamed out profanities, spittle flying everywhere.

"YOU CALL THAT AN ARM WRESTLING MATCH, MAGGOT? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THE BLUE TEAM LADIES FIGHT BETTER THAN THAT! EVEN THEIR GRANDMOTHERS CAN ARM WRESTLE BETTER THAN YOU! MAN UP, YOU DRESS-WEARING ENGLISHMAN!"

The Scot, who, on further inspection, was wearing an eye patch, grumbled sarcastically. "'Ah love ya too, man."

The Medic pulled him away from the scene and tightly followed the Heavy, mumbling some words to him that he couldn't quite catch.

"- our tvoo eccentric explosife specialists…"

Right, the Soldier and the Demolition Man, or Demoman for short. He had momentarily forgotten. That stupid tranquilizer dart might've jumbled up his memory.

The trio headed inside the kitchen, where a masked man and a hard-hat wearing man were frying something that smelled delicious. His stomach grumbled involuntarily. A lanky young man with bandages on his hands was jogging in place besides the two cooks, whining with a Bostonian accent. Scout, he thought.

"Aw, c'mon, hard hat! Just hurry up! I'm starvin'!"

Engineer. That must be Pyro next to him then, the fire-loving one.

Heavy led them to the refrigerator, reached inside, and pulled out three sandwiches stacked on top of each other. He grabbed two plates more and seperated the sandwiches.

Then, the Heavy led them into a dining room, where a balaclava-clad man smoked a cigarette companionably with an aviator-wearing man.

He pulled out three toothpicks with olives on them, sticking one on his sandwich and one on Medic's. He gestured at him, asking if he wanted one.

He shook his head no. "I'm good, thanks."

The Heavy shrugged, as if he didn't know what he was missing out on, and began to chow down. He finished his long before the Medic and he finished.

"Soft feeling, da?"

The sandwich had tasted spectacular. Mouth full of sandwich, he flashed Heavy a thumbs up.

"Yes, mein komrade makes the best Sandviches."

He could detect an uppercase letter on Sandvich, and so he mentally logged that it was a proper noun.

"Ah, so this is our new teammate," the balaclava-clad man spoke, with a heavy French accent.

He was the Spy.

"Another bloody bloke for me to have to deal with," the aviator-wearing one grumbled. Sniper.

"Don't mind the bushman. He's having a bad day. Now, I expect Heavy and Medic have already shown you your room."

The pair glanced at each other sheepishly.

"No? Well zen… get going?"

They hopped up and began to pull him along.

Spy, the de facto leader of the group. Interesting.

Soon, they arrived at his quarters, an uninteresting room with a locker, a bed, and a dresser. A window brought a small smidgen of light into the room, along with the single lightbulb on the ceiling. When he glanced out the window, all he saw was sand, with a few tumbleweeds here and there.

"Vell, mein freund, I sink ve'fe troubled you enough for vun day. Gute nacht."

He tiredly waved them away, too tired to even feel hungry anymore. He shut the door behind them and sank into a restful sleep.