Why am I doing this? I was inspired by a DeviantART sketch by Taklay yankovic (i.e. 'TF2 - What is this, I don't even') and interesting insert fiction is hard to come by. In all honesty, though, this is little more than a fun, writing exercise for me. I'll see if I can boot out a chapter in a day or so and try and keep up the pace, and not worry myself over little details like length or overarching plot and things like that.
Long story short, I've currently lost my passion for my old story. I'm not just going to cut it without warning, but I need to rekindle my passion for writing before I feel I can really do anything. I've been playing TF2 since the 2013 Halloween event, where I played for about five minutes before the lag body slammed my computer and the server crashed and died in a fire.
By the by, I have read exactly ONE Team Fortress 2 comic to date ('Doom Mates', if you're interested. I know you're not, so don't worry), mostly because I'm lazy. So, in the interest of avoiding angry players who think I've messed up the canon to get on people's nerves, let's say this fanfic is based on GAME-LOGIC as opposed to COMIC-LOGIC. In the mean-time, I'll see if I can get around to reading some more to get my facts straight.
I can't stress this enough: You really, really cannot take this work seriously. It's crack in a flapjack. Just like Team Fortress 2 itself. But seriously, drop me a line if you feel the need to explain important TF2 canon facts to me.
Logon, Ready…Run - Server of a Down
…
"-And… blacklisted."
A quick mouse click brings me back to the starting screen of Team Fortress 2, having booted myself off of a server full of nothing but bots and a butt-load of annoying adverts.
If I wanted to play with bots, I'd just crank up the Training mode. At least then I could get straight to the massive, graphically rendered A.I. murder without any dicking about.
In all honestly though, I'd found myself doing training more and more as time went on, and not just from a lack of players or severs. When one of your regular playing buddies is feeding a relapsed Skyrim addiction and a few others are moving house, finishing university or other time-consuming activities, available team-mates become quite scarce quite quickly.
I turn and shoot a glance out the window. Blue skies and a warm breeze floats over the rooftops. Shame the temperature is reaching 37 degrees under the shade. At least there's a legitimate reason I'm not outside doing productive things instead of squandering my life away.
Hey, it's better than watching TV. Although in this day and age, experimenting with puppies and gravity is more wholesome and fun than TV.
I drag up my inventory screen and give another once-over look at all the loot I've accumulated.
"Hmm…I have a few spares, but not enough to craft some refined metal at the moment…"
I flick to the character load-out screens, making a few weapon adjustments and removing the Halloween gear from the Medic.
"Pity the next full moon isn't for another two and a half weeks…"
I bring up the messages board on Steam.
I started TF2 quite late considering how long the game had been around. Having received The Orange Box as a gift three years ago for PC, I had installed everything, and then proceeded to busy myself with Portal and Half-Life 2 before falling to the demands of school and social obligations.
About a two years later, after about a minute and a half of consideration, I booted up the programme under the impression that I had the silly game on my computer, I might as well give it a try just because there's only so long one can play Pokémon on a computer emulator.
Holy hell, I thought, this is cluster-f*** of FUN.
Granted, I'd started by jumping straight into a server full of players as a Medic and swiftly got mutilated from multiple sources repeatedly, but still, one of the best 40 minutes of my gaming life.
Actually, Snipers. Yeh, I got destroyed by Snipers. Taunted by everything else but murdered by Snipers.
One head-shot me while I was still inside the spawn. Right inside the spawn.
Bloody campers.
Since that fateful day of body blitzing crit-rockets and urine-shooting sniper rifles, I re-evaluated my former opinion of the game and quickly started to accumulate hour after hour after hour of play-time.
Maps and classes began to cement themselves in my mind and muscle memory, items dropped out of the digital sky as if hurled down from the heavens by a shouty, Australian man-god and achievements popped up from time-to-time like that one shiny Pokémon you saw but your level 80 starter's weakest attack got a critical hit and knocked it to oblivion.
I temporarily quit the game and get up from my worn-down computer chair to fetch a drink.
TF2 is just so wonderfully organic.
Games where cock-ups are more fun and fulfilling than actually doing well and where your finest moments are ones where you've actually lost are really on the endangered list as of the last few years.
One time I was a Medic with a full uber on Upward. I ran out from a building to reach a Demoman who was under fire and activated the Ubercharge. The beam was closing in at five feet, four, three, two, one…
And the Demoman exploded from a crit rocket.
Standing dumbstruck for a few seconds, I realised my uber was rapidly depleting and there was no one around I could give it to.
Just as I decided to try and retreat with as much dignity as I could, I spotted another friendly Medic doing the bone-saw fandango with an enemy Scout and losing. I make a leap over to him and give him a nice dose of invulnerability.
He promptly slices and dices the jumpy pest, before jumping down to my level and treating me to my first ever TF2 high-five animation, while a voice in my head squealed 'Medic high-five!'
It was like playing with excitable kittens on a morphine high.
That's me, you understand, not the kittens.
For the record, our side still lost the match. Completely worth it, though.
I sit myself back down in front of the flickering screen and start up Team Fortress 2 again. I take a sip of my drink as the Valve logo flashes up followed by the nostalgia-mimicking action music.
I click on 'Servers' and start scrolling through.
"Okay, server full…server full…randomised weapons map…Oh, God. Not an achievement farming map…Mario ones are fine, but I'd like to play an actual game…Can do jump maps 'cause I fail at rocket jumping…CTF, No, no, no, no, no…"
I click in the corner of the screen displaying game modes. I quickly select scroll down to the Control Points modes.
"Haven't done Gorge in a while." The list momentarily calibrates itself and reappears.
"That's another bot map…full…full…International server, the lag would be phenomenal on this thing. It lags badly enough on normal servers…"
I keep scrolling down until the list hits the bottom.
There's two bot maps with no one on them, a full server and…
The final sever has no name. Whereas other servers are actual names, or things that pass for names in this day and age, the space is just left blank. The info displays the 'cp_gorge' and that there's 18 players currently on there, but no server maximum number.
Okay, I'll bite. Even on the bot and trading servers you can't muck up the info that much. Looks like someone's hacked the game. I just take a peek in spectator mode or something and see what this is all about. If it's a con, I'll jump ship. I click on the button labelled 'Connect.'
A window pops up. The black box requests a password.
Aw, piss.
Well, I don't know. How about 'TF2'?
Incorrect.
'Team Fortress 2'?
Incorrect.
'Saxon Hale'…Oh, no wait – 'SAXON HALE'?
Incorrect.
'Gabe Newell'?
Incorrect.
What do you want from me?
What would be the point of having a fake/scam server if nobody can get onto it?
You sir, have defeated the purpose of putting up this server. I laugh in your general direction.
I take another sip.
Numerical password, maybe?
Okay, dumbest thing I can think of in five…
'1234'?
Incorrect.
'0616'?
Incorrect.
I huff. "Be picky, why don't you?"
Well, if they know anything TF2… Best pass code ever, in my opinion.
'1…1…1…he, he…1.'
I click 'Connect'.
The dominant sensation that overcomes me is like standing in front of an airlock as it opens. A stronger and much more overwhelming feeling akin to having someone pull you out through a window you were leaning out of. Nausea Falcon Punches me in the chest area
Final thoughts as the world implodes around me?
Nailed it.
…
You know when you dream that you're falling from a large height (let's say from a cliff), and then, right as you hit the bottom, you wake up lying on your bed?
Dazed, disorientated and slightly ill?
Welcome to right now.
I pull myself up into a vague foetal position until the thought of movement doesn't make me sick to my stomach. I look up.
I'm stuck in a room. A room with three doors and an old, miniature TV set sitting upon a small brown table between them. One door is red with the RED logo and writing written upon the glass, along with its blue BLU counterpart besides it. Across from the two, sits the flickering, black-and-white TV screen, the quiet sound of static emanating from it. Besides it, away from the other doors, stands a grey cousin with no logo and only the word 'Random' scrawled on the glass.
I carefully pull myself to my feet, wobbling slightly from the fact my legs have been replaced with jelly shaped like legs.
"Alright," I croak. "I'm going to take this nice and slow…"
I step forward and take a peek into the glass of the RED door. Although the glass is perfectly transparent, if not easy to look through, I can't see anything on the other side. I repeat this and get the same results with the other doors.
I move over to where the TV is. I bend down in front of the screen and give the knobs on the front a few twists to see if there's any improvement. The static flickers and fluxes, but no images appear out of the analogue fog.
So…there's not match going on? Or I can't spectate? I straighten back up, looking from door to door.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
I move over to one of the gateways.
"I guess…Random?"
Tensing myself for being hit by another vacuum experience, I give the handle on the grey door a turn. With a quiet, clean squeak, the door opens up. No Unrelenting Force comes to pushes me off of my feet. I hesitantly slip the door open further and pear inside. The room is pitch black and I can't tell how big it is. As stealthily as possible, I gently trend inside, eyes facing forward and hand moving to catch the door before it closes completely.
My fingers miss on the door edge, allowing it to swing back and shut with a heavy click.
Light bursts into the room, sending disorienting flashes across my vision for a few minutes, before I'm able to take in a white room with blue accents, containing a long bench.
I spare a glance at the door behind me. There's no handle on this side of the door from what I can see.
I gulp and a chill goes down my spine.
I hope to freaking hell I can get out of this…
I turn back to the bench. It's as white as the rest of the room with blue details and appears to fade into the wall. On it are figures. TF2 figures.
"Jeeze, these things are huge…"
They are akin to the same ones I've seen at Comic-Con and the like; the high-grade, collector's stuff with the really fine detailing. They're about 60 cm tall, with slight variations depending on the heights of the characters in question, each standing on a circular pedestal of the TF2 logo. All the characters are wearing the uniform of the BLU team. In front of each is a small screen and two buttons, one red and one yellow.
I stroll along the table, getting a good look at each one of the characters. These aren't the stock standard character models; the Soldier has a pair of shades on under his helmet, the Medic's backpack is that of the Quick-Fix rather an the normal one, The Pyro has the Degreaser as opposed to his-
Wait…these are my character load-outs!
Looking down further at the buttons, the red one reads 'Select', while the yellow reads 'Change Load-out'.
I press the yellow one in front to the Pyro. The little screen switches on. The TF2 load screen.
I press the screen where 'Misc.' is displayed. The screen changes and the list of hats, badges and other items pop up. I press on the little Balloonicorn.
The screen changes back, but now with the cuddly toy highlighted under 'Misc.' In front of me, a floating Balloonicorn appears over the shoulder of my Pyro. I press 'Done' on the screen and it goes black.
I move over, acting purely on automatic, until I'm standing in front of the BLU Sniper figure.
I take in a breath.
And press the little red button.
The last sensation I have is like stepping out from a cool, air-conditioned room into the middle of the desert.
The world turns off.
…
Sometimes Gorge is a big place with five checkpoints. Other times it's a small place with only two. A sane man would wonder why there would be all these seemingly unnecessary renovations to the building's structure just to accommodate two mercenary groups hell-bent on repeatedly capturing the same location over and over.
Safe to say, BLU Soldier is not a sane man.
Just for the record, his RED counterpart doesn't win any points, either. But that's beside the point.
Actually, come to think about it, no one on either team meets any known definition of the word 'sane'-
"ENOUGH WITH YOUR CANDIAN PROPAGANDA, YOU SALAD-EATING PENCIL PUSHER!"
Sorry, sir!
Gotta go, guys…If you make it, see you at the end of the chapter.
…
Satisfied with the response and departure of the narrator, the permanently angry American turned away to address his fearless, manly battalion-
"Yo, Solly. Who da hell are ya-"
"SHUT YOUR TRAP, TWINKLE-TOES!"
The BLU Scout jumped back as if scolded. He jumped back even further when the BLU Soldier stuck his finger way too close to face, and barked, "THIS IS A HIGH-STAKES OPERATION AND I DON'T NEED ANY HIPPIE-PINKO WRITER FLOATING AROUND SPYING ON US!"
The Boston raised a single, disbelieving eyebrow and backed up from the patriot, muttering something about mental people and deep ends.
Target now out of sight, Soldier once again tried to summon the attention of his noble band of soldiers. The others had better things to do.
Demoman was taking great swigs from his usual brown bottle of booze, giving the bottle a trial swing to test the weapon's effectiveness as more and more liquid was drained from it. The bottom half of Heavy Weapons Guy's body could be seen sticking out of the supply locker. The top half was inside looking for a Sandvich. Pyro, ever the normal one, was rocking out on his fire axe.
The BLU Engineer was adjusting his wrench, while the Medic was carefully applying the medigun's healing rays to him and his remaining team-mates, stern and collected in his work. Further away from the main group, Sniper was sitting up against a blue barrel, giving his much-used sniper's rifle a last-minute polish with a worn-out cloth. The BLU Spy was deep in thought, leaning against the wall.
He wasn't really, but nobody usually bothered him when he did this, so it was a good ruse.
Scout was, however, bored and slightly annoyed by Soldier's dismissal, so he was poking the man of a thousand and eight faces with his baseball bat.
"Stop it, you childish simpleton."
"Make me, ya freakin' backstabber!"
BLU SPY used GLARE!
It had no effect!
Foe BLU SCOUT used POKE!
BLU SPY is getting AGITATED!
BLU SPY used THREATEN WITH REVOLVER!
Foe BLU SCOUT ran away!
In the minute-or-so all this had been going on, Soldier had gotten really tired of being ignored by the team.
So he resorted to his 'angry' voice.
"LISTEN UP, MAGGOTS! I INTEND TO SEND EVERY ONE OF THOSE DIRTY REDS BACK TO WHAT-EVER COMMIE HELL THEY CRAWLED OUT OF, SO I EXPECT NOTHING BUT THE BEST FROM EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU SORRY ASSES, EVEN IF I HAVE TO DRAG YOU OUT TO THE BATTLEFIELD BY YOUR BA-"
The speakers scattered around the base crackle to life, followed by a harsh, female voice announcing in an official tone, "Mission begins in five…"
Chatter amongst the group ceases almost immediately. The BLU Sniper threw the rag on the barrel and stood up while the Spy straightened up and leaned away from the wall. Soldier let out a huff that his awesome and inspiring speech had been cut short, but what the hell. It's time to reduce some hippie scum to floor ketchup for America, he smirked at the thought.
"Four…" Pyro gives his flamethrower a test spurt, the Medic quickly side-stepping before the little flame sets fire to the tail of his long, white lab coat.
"Three…" The Demoman takes a final, emptying swig from the bottle, before stowing it away somewhere and bring out his grenade launcher.
"Two…" Heavy gave his prized minigun Sasha a gentle pat.
"One…" The BLU Soldier bangs his trusty shovel against his helmet; one for Uncle Sam, one for Lady Liberty, one for luck, one to fix his sudden headache and one for ribs. American ribs.
Off in the distance, an old air raid siren blasts as the chain-linked metal doors shoot open.
From the cold, concrete depths of the BLU re-spawn room, eight semi-crazy mercs burst into action. The ninth has a quick smoke.
"CHARGE!"
"Hav' at 'em, lads!"
"Raus, raus!"
"HERE I COME!"
"Yeehah!"
"God save the Queen!"
"Mhmmhm!"
"Play ball!"
The BLU Spy merely snakes his head at the passing human stampede, before smartly adjusting his tie.
A button press on his odd, silver wristwatch and the suited man fades from view.
"Shall we?" He asks no one in particular, after which the soft clip-clop of fine, Italian shoes retreats down the hall and out into the battlefield.
Outside the battlements, the distance cacophony of rockets, rifles, sentries and shotguns echoes around the area, easily bypassing the thick walls of the BLU's own stronghold.
Yells of triumph turn into screams of agony, in turn to be placed by other triumphant calls, and so on; all constantly accompanied by the sound of flying shrapnel and the faint smell of burning human flesh.
Like a drill bit explosion in a sausage factory.
Within the small concrete block of a re-spawn room, the familiar cha-chink of re-spawn dropping off an unfortunate clicks in the stillness.
One would be forgiven for thinking that the BLU Sniper met his first demise very early in the game.
However, most would quickly point out that the Sniper had been seen leaving with his custom-made rifle, rather than the stocky wooden bow and arrows of the Huntsman, both hands protected by brown, finger-less gloves.
The large, serrated kukri knife that hung from his belt that went by its product name of 'Bushwacka' was also not part of Sniper's usual set. His clothes, the normal blue-based sniping attire, was joined by a small, golden badge displaying his class symbol depicting a sniper rifle's scope.
And while the Sniper originally left the spawn room with a calm and professional expression on his face, the man that stands here now looks as if he skydived off the Empire State building without a parachute while being shown the really disturbing/gory bits from 'The Human Centipede.'
Hands primed and arrow loaded as if ready to draw his bow at a moment's notice, one can just notice his breathing as his chest rises and falls, shell-shock apparent even through the yellow-tinted aviators that covers his eyes.
A moment's silence passes, before the Australian assassin takes his free hand off the Huntsman to bring it slowly up to his face. He stares at the rough, masculine appendage for a few seconds, turning it around to get a full view of it, tensely inspecting the short, slightly dirty nails and the tanned skin hardened by sun, blistering metal and hard work.
The pseudo-BLU Sniper moves the hand to face, where he gently starts to feel his chin as if touching the lean, chiselled jaw for the first time in his life.
The slight tension that had started to build up since he had dropped literally out of nowhere into the re-spawn room reaches a rather weighty crescendo as the Sniper stares wide-eyed at nothing, before opening his mouth and letting out a breathy whisper.
"…Bloody hell, I 'ave stubble…"
HAPPY NEW YEAR! I MADE IT IN BEFORE 2013 ENDED, SUCKERS! :)
~NEXT CHAPTER TEASER!~
And just what the hell is going on… down…
Oh, God…Don't think about the weight between your legs, FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T THINK ABOUT THE WEIGHT BETWEEN YOUR LEGS!
~NEXT CHAPTER TEASER END!~