THE END OF TF2: Part 2, In which Eaves are Dropped (Sniper x Telephone)
The main problem, certainly first of all, was the phones.
Telephone poles dotted the landscape; but had universally been dismissed as worthless props (good for a little cover and nothing else) until, as the place still reeled from the announcement, one inquisitive scout put his ear to the receiver and excitedly shouted that hey, they're workin' now. Crowds of wannabe communicators had blossomed around the base of the poles like autumn mushrooms around an oak, and the standard US quarter now had the approximate value of five grams of gold.
A RED sniper leaned in to the receiver. "Mum- mum. Turn yer aid up. I'll be- I'll be home in the- MUM!"
One wildly gesticulating Spy was currently holding up the queue about five miles away. "Collette! Collete, c'est fini! Je ne sais pas pourqoui, mais je peut retourner! Mais tout suite! Comment est notre petite bebe, Colette? Il me semble?"
One engineer ran a calloused thumb up the spine of a discreet little black book as he leaned against the phone's casing; "Betsy; now y'all know how you promised'a keep me honorable once I got home, hur hur..."
Already, a group of RED and BLU scouts had set up a soccer game in the wasted sands outside the RED base, formerly a no-man's-Land. Until a BLU sniper, blessed with the capacity for limitless good-natured violence shared by all former British colonies, threw his hat in the air and leapt into the fray with a cry more animal than human and more "sonic phenomenon" than animal. After that a small but nippy RED spy had proved a formidable striker, until a game-for-anything Pyro had leapt into the fray and hard-shouldered him out of existence. A BLU soldier stood stiffly at attention beside the goal, and was thus swiftly subbed out for a RED heavy, who repeatedly rumbled that he didn't understand the rules of this game of tiny leetle men, but who filled enough of the goal mouth for this not to be a problem. At this point of course, the game was not so much a "game" as it was a living, breathing organism made of elbows and powered entirely by dirty kicks, but everyone was having so much fun it was difficult to consider breaking them up.
"First thing I'm gonna do when I get home, I'm gonna go see my moms. Have some of the best damn clam chowder in the Upper West Side. BAM!"
"Your muzzer? Ah, perhaps we could share a train."
"What the hell you talkin' about, pal?"
"Did your dear muzzer ever tell you about ze 'andsome rogue who acted as your fazzer?"
"No. She told me about the lyin' cheatin' backstabbin' scumbag who upped and left, though."
"Lying, backstabbing- ah, petit, we have so much to talk about. But later. On the train. Au revoir, petit regent."
"What the- *shrug*. Anyway, second thing I'm gonna do is beat the ever-living snot out of every single one of my brothers with *BONK* this baby here…"
A group of snipers, moving with almost unearthly hivemind instinct (as snipers are wont to do) had already struck out for the horizon. And the sight, it was universally agreed, of fifty or sixty Winnebago RVs moving in drunken, swerving, singing-the-filthiest-version-of-Waltzing-Matilda convoy towards the orange sunset was a sight to bring a throb to the most hardened of hearts. (Swerving quite a lot, actually; the alliance of Demomen had been generous in sharing out reserves of their 110% proof "Holy-Mary" moonshine, because, as one man had roared, already quite, quite spectacularly drunk, "we won't be needin' reserves anymore, will we?")
Spy translation 1: "Collette! Colette, it's over! I don't know why, but I can come back home! Soon! How is the baby, Colette? Does he look like me?"
Spy translation 2: "Goodbye, little prince."
Isn't strange how mythologies develop? Despite the fact that it's never given in any of the advertising scree, we all know that Scoot is an annoying little bugger who zips around bothering people in his spare time, a la potter puppet pals. Soldier, we know for certain, lives in a long Strangelove-esque "war room" covered in maps and red string. And no-one would ever accuse Pyro, say, of being evil (even despite the official bio) in the same way Medic or Spy is, simply because that's not his character. He's so clearly a cuddly little snugglebum who loves cooking and bunny rabbits and roasting things alive, in that order. It used to be that online FPSs came in two flavours; "with story" or "without". TF2 bizarrely, seems to be growing* a story like you'd evolve a prehensile limb, and I for one applaud it.
*Take, as example, the way the Demoman's intro spiel had to be retconned after the War! update.
I've always been a fan of the portmanteau style of storytelling (read: I have the a attention span of a hyperactive gnat) and besides, I think the action would be pretty fragmented at the time, I mean geez. What I'd really like to do is open it out to other characters- anybody with ideas (who doesn't mind me getting my grubby pawprints all over them) should say so in the review.