The morning sun had risen once more. Its white light sterilized the living quarters of the team, streaming in warm bands through clean windows. The Heavy paused only for a moment, watching doves dart back and forth into a hatch adjacent to the Medic's infirmary. A stubborn smile stayed on his face, even with the hopelessness of his situation weighing him down. There was much work to be done today. It was hard to say what the team was responsible for, but he assumed a meeting with the Administrator was inevitable. There were other chores as well. Cleaning. Laundry. Feeding the Medic's birds. Little things. Many little things. He could keep himself occupied.

He didn't have to think. Just work.

The Heavy made his way over to their bathroom. The door was slightly ripped from the hinges. Probably from when—no. He shook his head, pushing more thoughts aside. He didn't have to think about it yet. There were other things he could ponder. It was strange, being the only one in the bathroom. While the Demoman never woke up early, the Soldier often was up with the sun. Neither man had shown his face yet. Miss Pauling hadn't appeared, either. So perplexing. He thought he heard strange sounds in the night, like someone was—

No. It was time to brush his teeth.

The Heavy unscrewed the cap from his toothpaste. His toothbrush was a bit too small for his hands, but it still worked. He squeezed a thick line of green ooze onto the brush, then began scrubbing his teeth. It was easy to focus on attacking his gums. Tiny little germs were easy prey. He rubbed a little too hard, cutting his gums. It didn't hurt, but the blood was unsightly. He spat into the sink, then ran the tap. Blood and foam washed down the drain. He watched the swirl, hypnotized for one moment.

Well, might as well shave. He didn't like shaving the stubble on his massive chin, but since he most likely had to report to the Administrator today, he might as well look clean. He rummaged for the shaving cream behind the mirror. Giving the canister a good shake, he grimaced. It was about empty. Stupid baby Scout must have been pretending to shave again. He'd never fool anyone. He couldn't grow a beard. The Heavy held his hand open, flipping his palm back. The Medic passed him his canister. It wasn't the Heavy's favorite brand, but it would—

Both men stopped.

The Heavy was dumbstruck. What was this, some sort of hangover? A hallucination? He cocked his head to the left, studying the Medic's face. The Medic looked just as confused, his eyes going from a squint to wide open. He fumbled for his glasses on the sink, placing them crooked on his nose. The Heavy hesitated for one second. He raised a wide finger, then poked the Medic in the shoulder. Cotton, skin, and bone resisted. He was solid. Real.

The delightful cheer that escaped the Heavy could be heard through the entire base. "Doctor!"

With no delay, he snatched up the German man. A round of bombastic laughter escaped the large Russian, resonating in the bathroom and inside the Medic's ribcage. He struggled to escape the Heavy's grasp, his toes barely touching the floor. It was only through a few grunts and taps that he was finally able to get the Heavy to put him down.

"How? When? What—Doctor, I—" The Heavy struggled to form a coherent thought. He grasped the Medic's hand. Yanking the two of them out of the bathroom, he began spewing everything that was in his head. "Doctor, how? Oh, and Archimedes! Pavlov and Keldysh—is good names? So tiny! Ugly, right now, but I think—"

"Settle down! I can't understand you!" the Medic sighed.

The Heavy clapped his huge hands on the Medic's shoulders. "Babies, doctor! On your desk!"

Their reunion was interrupted by a mouthy friend. "For God's sake, I don't wanna hear about you guys's Eastern European love fe—oh, my God." Both the Medic and the Heavy turned to stare at the dumbfounded Scout. He patted himself down. "I'm alive? I'm alive! Holy crap! Eat it, ya flamin' bastard! Hope ya freeze in hell!"

The Heavy shook his head, confused. "Doctor, vat in the—"

"Oy! Would ya bunch 'a ninnies—oh, cripes! I'm seein' ghosts!" The Demoman interrupted and then bolted from the celebration. He came back out of his room fully armed, flinging bulbs of garlic at the three in the hallway. "Back! Back, ye sinners!"

The Medic beaned one back at the Demoman. "Ve are not ghost! And zis only vorks against vampires, you dummkopf!"

"Vampires? This sounds like a job for—hey, wait a second!" The Soldier stormed out of his room, his helmet clashing with his pajamas. He growled once, scrunching up his face. "I don't know about you, Baron Von Healenstein, but I know that that little yippie bastard is toast! I saw you kill yourself!"

A second helmeted man nodded in agreement. He scratched his chin, then jumped as his mind kicked on. "That means the regenerator's—Outta my way!" The Engineer dashed past the quarrelling lot, rushing to the stairwell as fast as his legs would take him. The Soldier's jaw dropped, now more confused than ever. He was puzzled as a crash echoed from the stairwell. Leave it to the egghead to crack his skull open just as he'd revived.

The Soldier jogged over to the staircase, prepared for the worst. He snorted once, then shook his head. The Engineer hadn't fallen far. Collapsed in a heap on the landing between the second and first floors were the short Texan and the lanky Australian. Both were laughing, rubbing sore spots. Apparently, they'd rounded the corner a little too fast.

The Engineer gave the Sniper a pat on his flank. "I gotta check the respawn generator. Be right back."

"Roight, then." The Sniper stumbled up to the second floor, trying to hide his embarrassment from the Soldier. "Tripped a bit."

The Soldier snickered. "Sounds like you're volunteering to run my obstacle course for the next two weeks."

"What, ya mean that five minute skip through the tire field?" the Scout asked. He shook his head. "Please, man. Ya gotta add some walls or hurdles or somethin'. Making a couple 'a flamin' hoops."

The Pyro agreed. "AI raike dad aidear."

Now everyone was swarming the man in the gas mask. He greeted them all in turn, his muzzle rattling with his laughs. The Soldier and the Demoman gave him slugs to the shoulder. The ruckus finally drew Miss Pauling out of the guest suite. She squinted for a moment, cleaned her glasses, then squinted again. The Pyro gave her a cheerful greeting, then raised a hand. She lifted hers as well, slightly unsure. The Pyro slapped his hand against hers, giving a loud cheer. The men echoed him, all whooping and hollering.

"I'm glad to see you guys are okay, but… I'd like an explanation," Miss Pauling spoke slowly, still bewildered.

"Indeed."

Everyone fell silent as the Spy shut the door to his room. He hesitated, now realizing that he could be in danger. The rest of his teammates were eyeing him, uncertain about what to make of his reappearance. Well, the five that had been with him through that strange castle would trust him, wouldn't they? That left the three strongest men to deal with. They seemed to be just as wary as he was. Even Miss Pauling was a little put off with him. Perhaps this had been his fault, but there had to be a way to rectify this.

The Spy cleared his throat. "I am assuming zat you have destroyed it, have you not?"

"Destroyed what, Frenchie?" the Soldier asked.

"Ze knife, of course," the Spy clarified.

Miss Pauling tapped the Spy on the shoulder. She flinched as he turned around, but regained her composure. "The men locked it up, for now."

The Spy shook his head. "Zat will not do. We must destroy it. Make sure zis will not happen again."

"I'll go tell Dell ta kick on the smelter," the Sniper volunteered. "Moight be a few minutes before it gets all toasty."

Miss Pauling nodded. "Okay. In the meantime, gentlemen, why don't you do…whatever it is you do in the morning?"

The team agreed to the new schedule with no fuss. As they broke off to take care of their own needs, Miss Pauling stayed with the Spy for one moment. He was expecting her to hit him, scold him like the Administrator would. She merely gave him a frustrated glare, then returned to her room. Well, she'd turned her back to him. The part he was most used to attacking in other people. Perhaps she did trust him a bit yet. He shrugged it off, settling back into his routine.

As soon as he'd gotten notice from the Engineer that the smelter was ready, the team headed downstairs. The Heavy, Soldier, and Demoman took their time undoing the lock. All three shot the Spy a dirty look as he tried to watch them. He gave a small chuckle. Didn't they know he could just pick it if he wanted? Sometimes they could be so ridiculous.

As the last part of the lock disengaged, the Demoman swung the safe door open. He gawked at the contents of the safe. The other men were struck speechless as well. The Spy pressed to the front of the group, squatting down next to the Demoman. No, this was—well, perhaps it wasn't impossible, but—he shook his head. He dug into the safe, flinging miniature dunes aside. The Demoman assisted him, both men squatting over a pile of sand. Both of their hands brushed the bottom of the safe, scraping away the last few grains.

The knife was nowhere to be found.

/***/

Having no discernable resolution to where the knife went, or even what happened to it, the team did the next event in their routine—breakfast. They had a strange efficiency about the meal, most days. Each man would take a turn fixing one thing or another, and cooking would be done in less than fifteen minutes. They would then spend time talking about strategies for the next battle or random news. Today was a little more laid back, even for them. There were still some tensions between the rest of the team and the Spy, but they were beginning to heal. Oddly enough, pancakes, fruit, and coffee tended to smooth little arguments over.

"So, den things just went black, and I dunno. Just ended up wakin' up in my bed," the Scout shrugged, finishing his recollection of the events. He tapped the man to his left on the shoulder. "Yo, Pyro! Syrup!"

The Heavy frowned. "How very strange." He grabbed a bunch of grapes from the arrangement in the center of the table. Archimedes helped himself as well, although it was questionable whether or not the bird could actually eat his catch.

"That's why ya never want ta mess around with weird, magical crap. It'll always bite ya in the arse." The Demoman flicked an orange peel into a trash bin across the table. "Never heard of a genie liven' in a knife, though. Ya think that's really what it was?"

The Engineer frowned. As he spoke, he waved the cut pancake on his fork around. "I ain't one fer speculation, but I'm not sure it was livin' in it, per say. Coulda been like some kinda device fer transporten' us to another dimension. Like that strange ol' book that took yer eye."

"Sounds like it was a miserable old bastard, too. Thought genies were supposed to be kinda—I don't know. Jollier," the Soldier rambled. He poured himself another cup of coffee, then refilled Miss Pauling's cup.

The Sniper shrugged. "Far as jinn go, it's complicated. Some regard them as angels. Others, more like devils. Some grant wishes, some just want ta kill. Depends on the one ya run across, I suppose."

"Wait, wait, wait. I got it," the Scout interrupted. "So, it wants to kill humans, right? But it's a lazy bastard. So, it turns itself into a knife, den has the humans kill each other for fun. And den, it torments 'em in the afterlife!"

The Spy frowned. "Zat does not explain why it had zat strange transformation ability. Unless you all believe it to merely be magic, of course."

"Or zat vierd fire business zat came out of us ven zat jinn showed up," the Medic stated. He bit off a smaller piece of fruit, then passed that to Archimedes.

The Scout was quick to jump in. "Say, yeah! Now that you mention it. Like, I thought that was our souls or somethin', but hell, I still feel like I got mine! I mean, I think I do." He scratched his head, "Man, anybody here ever lost one before? Seems like somethin' at least you'd experience, Tavish."

The Demoman shook his head. "I don't know why ya'd think I'd know anythin' about that, laddy."

The Engineer made an awkward cough. "Well, it was a bein' made 'a fire. And fires need a fuel ta build, so ta speak. So maybe it was put in us when we got stabbed. So it could…grow."

The analogy went over the heads of most of the men. Miss Pauling caught on first, almost sneezing coffee out of her nose. The Sniper got it next, a small twitch shaking his shoulders. A guttural snort came from the Medic. He lost his cool, cackling loud enough to scare the doves resting on the Heavy's shoulders. "Are you telling me zat zis zing vas engaging in a parasitical relationship viz us?"

"Well, Doc, I don't know! You'd know better than me!" The Engineer flushed red. "All I'm sayin' is that a livin' thing doesn't go around puttin' parts 'a itself in other people unless it—"

With the Scout's realization came a flurry of panic. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Was I knocked up with some kinda demon baby?"

The Engineer shook his head, waving his hands. "I didn't mean like that! More like cuttin' a plant offa its parent and getting' it ta grow in new soil."

"Well, I think I'm done with this conversation." The Soldier stood up. With one swift motion, he marched his plate and utensils to the kitchen. He wasn't fond of washing dishes, but it was preferable to the strange turn of events the conversation had taken.

The Demoman agreed. "Ditto." Someone had to dry the dishes, after all. Might as well take his chance to escape while it was made available.

It was clear that the Heavy was not comfortable with this topic. The Medic sighed. While he wanted to stay and discuss the nature of the being he'd encountered, he also needed to take measurements on the new offspring. He gave the Heavy a pat on the shoulder. "Suppose ve have vork to do as vell. Let's go see Pavlov und Keldysh." The big Russian smiled from ear to ear, then rushed for the infirmary. The Medic laughed to himself. If only that meat shield could move so fast in combat.

"Yeah. Huh. Think I've got stuff ta do as well." The Scout walked away from the table, leaving his dirty dishes in place. "Gotta be somethin' good on TV. Need ta rot my brain out right now."

Television always had a grip on the Pyro. He perked up at the Scout's mutterings. He gave a small goodbye buzz to the remaining crew, then picked up the discarded dishes on the table. Maybe he didn't want to be in on the conversation anymore, but that didn't mean he was going to be rude, either. He placed the stack next to the sink, then went to go spend some quality time with the idiot box.

"Well, gentlemen, it's been lovely. As always," Miss Pauling sighed. "I've got to go do my time sheets for this."

The Sniper nodded. He took her plate and cup, then stacked it on his own. "Roight, then. Think I'll go fetch a shower. Haven't had a proper one yet." He gave the Spy a dirty look and a toothy grin. "Don't know why I keep getting interrupted."

The Spy shooed him off. "Yes, well, be gone wiz you, too."

It looked like breakfast was more or less done. The Engineer shook his head, then gathered up his utensils. He offered to take the Spy's plate, which the Frenchman gave. The Spy sighed, then produced a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. It was strange to watch the Spy smoke in silence. A strange feeling of pity struck the Engineer. It wasn't like the Spy had asked for all of these horrible things to happen. Not that anyone had given him too bad of a time for what had occurred, but it was clear that he still felt a little guilty.

Then another quirky idea crossed his mind.

"You know, Spy. You were pretty good with that knife," the Engineer said.

The Spy shrugged, brushing the compliment aside. "If you say so."

"I mean it. Can't help but think what ya could do with somethin' like that in battle." The Engineer set the stack of dishes down, then approached the Spy again. "Shouldn't be hard ta make, either. Just gotta take that little Spytron 3000 of yers, then apply the tech that makes it run into a knife. Probably will cause some interference, but it might work."

The Spy paused for a moment, dragging slowly through the cigarette. A roll of smoke escaped his nose. It had been effective, hadn't it? He'd used that knife to take the Pyro, the Medic, the Sniper, and the Engineer down in succession. No breaks, no detection. Just a smooth course. That could be useful. He was feeling a little burned by it at the moment, but a replica could prove very useful.

The smile on his lips already gave away the Spy's approval.

/***/

Miss Pauling sighed as she paced through the halls. Her report was getting to be too long. Between all the tapes, the strange data reels, and the general confusion amongst the team, she was writing a novella. Like the Administrator would have the patience to read through all of that, not to mention those two old bastards in their carbon copied mansions. She tapped her pen against her clipboard, a strange taste in her mouth. She'd forgotten to brush her teeth. Well, that wouldn't do.

She placed her clipboard in the guest suite, grabbing her traveling kit. Suppose all of this would go into overtime? A vacation sounded nice. Perhaps she could hop over to California for a couple of days. Not that she had to travel far to get to tequila and a beach, but it would be nice to escape for a little while. She reached for the bathroom door. It pushed aside much easier than she'd expected. What in the—oh.

There was a man's hand next to hers on the doorway. She kept her eyes down, trying not to stare too long at the towel around her subordinate's waist. An awkward flush overtook Miss Pauling's expression. The Sniper was equally flustered. He sighed, then entered the bathroom anyway. "Come on in, then. Not like I wasn't runnin' about starkers on the tapes."

Miss Pauling hesitated. She gave the camera outside of the restroom a glance. That really was a cruel place to put one. Not that there weren't ones already in the locker room, but they were in more discreet locations. Maybe she could talk to the Administrator about moving that one. Not like it caught anything anyway, but—well—

She sighed. She just wouldn't report the next fifteen minutes in overtime.

/***/

Author's Note:

There we go. Might as well finish it off.

It's very strange. I didn't expect this story to go on so long. I thought it would be over in four chapters. What's this, the ninth one? Did this thing even make sense? Oh, well. At least it was pretty. Kind of. Sort of.

Also—did you see the Aladdin's Private Reserve this week in the TF2 Update? Damn! I really picked a time to whip out a bad genie story!

Suppose I should get back to Drop Kick Me, Jesus, hmm? Think I've procrastinated long enough.