It was a good day. Today, there was no fight. He was free to do what he wanted. What was it he wanted to do? Eat a damn good sandwich, that is what he wanted to do.
A large man lumbered slowly over to the simple refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. As he approached, he rubbed his hands together eagerly. If memory served him right, there should still be one left over. With a happy chuckle, he opened the door and peered inside. There was almost a squeal of delight when his eyes landed on the single plate sitting next to a pack of beers. Reaching in, he gently pulled out the plate as if it would break at the slightest touch and kicked the door shut as he walked over to the small breakfast table pushed against the nearby wall. With extra care, he placed the plate down and was about to sit, but paused as he pulled out the chair. He looked thoughtfully to the ceiling for a moment before striding over to the refrigerator again and pulling out one of the bottles of beer. Not even bothering with a bottle opener, he grabbed the edge of the cap with his teeth and jerked his head to the side. The cap came off with a loud pop. He spit the cap into the garbage can and finally took a seat in front of his desire.
Sitting on the plate was a sandwich. Two slices of buttery white bread, crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, and an unidentifiable meat, of which he could care less about what it was. To make it even better, it was cut in half, and not just any cut in half, but diagonally cut in half. Then, to top off both slices, were the olives. They were not just any olives, they were green olives; the only kind of acceptable olive to be skewered into a sandwich.
After admiring it for a few moments, the man picked up one half and put it into his mouth. He could not help the giant, satisfied grin as he happily munched on his sandwich. He was about to take another bite when there was the rapid patter of light footsteps heading his direction. With a sigh, he had a feeling who would be popping in shortly.
"Yo, Heavy!"
Heavy did not bother to hide his deep sigh. There went his peaceful day of sandwich eating. The people he now lived with did not often allow him the luxury of simply eating in peace. They had met not too long ago, and when they were not fighting against the rival team, they were forced to live together. None of them even knew each other's real names. They were known only by their class. Needless to say, some were better company than others.
"Shit, how many of those have ya eaten?"
The intruder did not slow down until he was at the refrigerator. Heavy tried to ignore him and continue eating, but of course, failed. He glanced over his shoulder to see the newcomer with a bottle of beer in hand going through the drawers. By far, the most annoying one in his opinion was the Scout. Not only was he some brat, he was noisy, rude, and was always moving or twitching. He never kept still for long. Plus, Heavy had "accidentally" been on the receiving end of Scout's metal baseball bat. But the worst thing, the most horrid of actions the little punk could do, was steal his sandwich. On more than one occasion did he find his sandwich missing. Once, he could have sworn he had it in his hand, but when he tried to take a bite, nothing was there and the Scout was off to the side looking all smug eating HIS sandwich.
"Better lay off those or yer gonna wind up even fatter."
There was a chuckle from the Scout. He knew he was pushing it, but then, what else was there to do when he was trapped with a bunch of misshapen freaks? Dire consequences could be the result of his pestering, but there was nothing else for him to do. Besides, like Heavy would be able to catch him. With long limbs and trained in running, Scout was confident he could dodge and outrun Heavy, should the man decide to respond in violence. With this group, that was most likely the case. Sure, he had a bit of a violent streak in him, but some of the people he met here, well, they were pushing it. Soldier was the worst. Of course, Scout was not too sure about the Medic either. For being in the medical profession, he was overly eager to inflict pain. He said it was for research. Scout knew it was all filth and lies. Who was he kidding, they all loved to kill and blow things up; they worked perfectly together. However, that did not mean they could always get along off the battlefield.
"I am not fat. Am just big-boned."
Scout was surprised. He was positive the Heavy Weapons Guy would be screaming and coming at him by now. However, his surprised turned to amusement as he watched the Heavy attempt to ignore him. Those sandwiches must put him in a pretty good mood; that, or Medic puts something in them. Either way, he was bored and he had a target.
"Big-boned my ass. Yer just fat. What, with all those sandwiches ya eat."
"The sammich is not making me fat!"
Now it was Heavy's turn to be surprised. Instead of some smart-ass remark, the Scout just stood there a moment looking at him like he grew another head.
"W-what the hell? A-a sammich? Did you just frickin' say 'sammich'?! A sammich, you?"
Scout was incredulous while Heavy was suspicious. Heavy did not know why there was a sudden change in attitude. What was so odd about what he said? Scout leaned forward and pointed at the sandwich.
"Sandwich."
Heavy looked down at his sandwich and became very confused at the sudden turn of events.
"Da. Sammich."
"No. San-duh-witch."
Scout made sure to emphasize the "d" found in sandwich. There was no particular reason why this was annoying him so much. Sure, most of the team had funky accents, but this, this was almost too much. It did not help that Heavy was staring at him with the most blank expression on the face of the earth. He kept looking down at his sandwich, then at Scout, then back to his sandwich. His mouth hung open as he struggled to figure out what was going on.
"Sandawich."
"Dammit, no! Sandwich, sandwich. Say it right!"
Why was the Scout getting so angry all of a sudden? He was just trying to mimic what he just heard. In his opinion, the Scout was acting like an idiot. He kept telling him "sandwich, sandwich." Yes, he knew he had a sandwich. What was the problem? Heavy was about to try saying "sandwich" again, but before he could, somebody else came stomping into the kitchen.
"Vhat is all ze racket?!"
Both the Heavy and Scout looked up at the newcomer. The Medic stood in front of the table with his hands on his hips. Looking over the brim of his small, round glasses, he scrutinized the scene before him. Not too long ago, he had been trying to look into his MediGun a little bit more, to take advantage of the down time, but was continually distracted by the sound of two annoyingly loud voices yelling about a food item.
When he entered the kitchen, he saw the Scout leaning forward and angrily pointing to the sandwich. Now the Heavy, just looked clueless. Medic had some pity for the man. He was large, but there was not a whole lot going on upside as far as he was concerned. Then again, at the moment, not even he knew what was going on.
"Dude, Medic, tell 'im what that is."
Scout somehow managed to close the distance between the two of them in an astounding time and was poking him in the arm with one hand while pointing to the sandwich with the other. From the first time he met the Scout, he pinned him as annoying, and lo and behold, it held true. Medic swatted the offending finger away and pushed the frames of his glasses a bit further up his nose.
"A sandvich."
"Gyaa! No! It's a freakin' sandwich!"
With a loud smack upside the Scout's head, the Medic was momentarily pleased with himself, but the feeling was soon replaced by annoyance and confusion.
"Ja. Sandvich. Zat's vhat I said, Dummkopf."
The urge to plug his ears was becoming increasingly stronger the longer he listened to the youngest member of their team continue to rant. He chanced a glance over at the Heavy who was slowly munching on his sandwich while watching the two of them curiously.
"Don't you 'dummkopf' me, ya four-eyed bitch! Say it right! Sandwich!"
Finally, he could not hold back any longer. The Medic yelled right back, only after hitting the Scout on top of the head with his fist of course.
"Ze only bitch I see here is you! And vhat are you going on about with the sandvich?! It's a damn sandvich, ve get it already!"
Ruefully rubbing the top of his head, the Scout readjusted his baseball cap with a huff and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by another teammate.
"Bloody 'ell! Ah can hear ya all the way down in me room. What the hell's so special aboot the damn sandich?"
"Oh hell, not you too!"
The Demoman was surprised with the way the Scout's expression blanched and he was pointed at ever so rudely. The self-proclaimed "Black, Scottish, Cyclops" was not about to let anybody, let alone that squirrelly little brat, get away with pointing at him in one piece. However, before he was able to whip out one of his patented explosives, the Scout began yelling again.
"Sandwich. Why can't any of you yahoos get it right?!"
This was confusing. In being completely lost as to what was going on, Demoman forgot about blasting the Scout to high hell. Actually, everybody in the room thought Scout was being strange. He kept pointing aggressively to the sandwich and yelling out "sandwich." Yes, they knew what it was so they had no idea what the problem was.
"Good grief. What's with you blokes and all the noise over the sannie?"
For the briefest of moments, there was a thick, pregnant silence. All eyes turned to the Sniper. He cocked an eyebrow and scratched his head causing his hat to shift to the side a bit. This was a bit awkward for him. He had not been living with them for that long so Sniper was left to wonder what was going on. Surely, from the sounds of things, they did not know what was going on either? But, he was easy going and did not let it faze him. His profession was to shoot people in the head so there was not a whole lot that could unnerve him. Shrugging at their reaction, Sniper walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. When he looked over at the Scout again, there was a small twitch forming under his left eye. Suddenly, like cutting through the silence with his machete, the Scout resumed his very loud rant.
"Sannie? What, yer fedora on too tight or somethin'?!"
"Aw, no mate. This isn't a fedora. It's an akubra. It's got a wider brim since it's supposed to block the sun more and-"
"Okay, okay, akubra. Just...just go out and grill somethin' on the barbie, Koala Joe."
If it were any other person, he would have been offended at being interrupted in the middle of a cultural lecture, stereotyped, and racially named. However, being in the profession of patiently waiting to shoot somebody in the head, Sniper was not any other person. He was easy going and was not about to let the hyperactive kangaroo get to him. Besides, whatever they were yelling about, did not seem like something he should get himself sucked into. Actually, the idea of a barbecue was quite appealing.
"Well, not a bad idea. G'day mates!"
Briefly adjusting his pilot style sunglasses, the Sniper waved over his shoulder and walked towards the backyard. Maybe he could find the Pyro and save himself the time it took to light the grill. The others just watched him leave, only to replaced by said Pyro shortly thereafter.
"Mmmph, mmph?"
"Finally! Somebody who says it right!"
Scout threw his arms up in the air in exasperation and walked over to the Pyro. Grabbing his beer off the table, he took a large gulp before slamming the bottle down.
"Mmf mmf mpfm mmpf?"
He shot the Pyro an annoyed glare.
"Of course I'm old enough to drink! How old do ya people think I am?"
"Mm mmpf."
"Wha?! Ya crazy man?"
Demoman let out a frustrated growl and stormed over to one of the cupboards. He swung the doors open and noisily rummaged around until he pulled out a large bottle of whiskey. He yanked the cork out of the bottle and spit it out before taking large gulps. When he removed the bottle from his mouth, he let out a loud belch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Ah can't take this no more. Ah'm goin' back to me room. Let me know when ya start makin' some sense. Bah!"
He stomped out of the kitchen leaving the others behind. Medic and Heavy were still watching the Scout with odd and curious looks on their faces. Finally, after some silence caused by the Demoman's departure, the Medic spoke.
"Vell, vell. Zat vas interesting. I still don't know vhat your talking about, but maybe you should get a check-up?"
As he said the final phrase, the Medic tugged on the edge of his rubber glove and let it go with a loud snap. Scout could have sworn an evil glint flashed across his glasses. It did not help that there was that sadistic spark in the Medic's eyes. He had seen it before. The Scout saw the same look when the good doctor was able to switch from his MediGun to his bone saw. Scout gulped and took a step back nervously.
"T-that's okay, Doc. Ya know what? Whatever. Enjoy yer 'sammich'. Let's go Pyro."
"Mmmpf mmpf!"
"Guitar practice? You play guitar? Ya know, when they say 'grindin' the axe,' they don't actually mean it literally, right?"
"Mmpf mmmf mmmpfmm!"
As they walked away the Scout held his hands up defensively.
"Okay, okay, sorry! Just checkin'. I mean, did ya hear those guys goin' on and on? Ya can't be too sure."
Medic watched them walk away and shook his head. How those two hit it off was beyond him. Then again, Pyro seemed to get along with everybody. That was nice. Until they were more used to each other, they would need somebody who was sane enough to get along with all the different characters. It was a sad day when the person who ran around in a gas mask, flame retardant coveralls, and toted around a blowtorch was considered the sane one.
Before he too took his leave, the Medic glanced over at the Heavy who was still munching on his sandwich. He was curious as to how the Heavy was able to resume activity as if the convoluted conversation had never happened. Truth be told, it was not that deep. Some point along the way, he just dropped out of the conversation completely clueless and went back to his meal. It was pointless for him to try and figure out what was going on, so, he decided to try his hardest to ignore the noise and concentrate on the wonderful explosion of flavor in his mouth. That seemed to do it because when he looked up again, the kitchen was empty except for the Medic who watched him with curiosity.
Swallowing the chunk of sandwich in his mouth, the Heavy grabbed the other half and held it out with a cheeky grin.
"Want a sandvitch, Doctor?"
A/N: My first TF2 story. This story was spawned in some sort of deep, dark abyss. No idea why I started thinking about it. You gotta admit, there would have to be some miscommunication somewhere along the way. I mean, four of them have accents, the medic was probably a nazi, and one of them makes muffled noises. Which reminds me, I don't know why Scout knows what he/she is saying. So, why, in the end, does Heavy give the Medic a cheeky grin and offer part of his precious sandwich? Why indeed... I blame my friend for that one. She love them. Oh right, this takes place at some undisclosed time period. In other words, no idea. Judging by how I wrote it, I would say it was shortly after the group was formed? Anyhoo, let me know what you all think. Thanks for reading, hope ya enjoyed, and peace out!