Okay, so for coherence/realism of the romance plot, I long ago decided to give the middle finger to the canon ages of the characters and go by the wishes of the voice actors and the physical appearance the characters have in the videogame. If you look up the TF2 wiki, it will tell you that Sniper is 28 and Heavy is 57 on 1968. Yeah... Heavy could be Sniper's father... I know... Creepy... I also don't see Heavy being 57. 52 at most. I once watched an interview of John Patrick Lowrie, Sniper's voice actor, where he said that Sniper was around his 40s so for convenience, I will stick to his word. In this story, Sniper is gonna be 40 soon (soon, I say, ha, 10 chapters in the future) and Heavy, 46-48 (I don't plan to mention it).
On top of that, I spent a whole afternoon trying to chronologically fit Heavy's PhD in Russian literature into the canon timeline and... Well... It's not possible. It would be very hard to believe that he was accepted at any university during the over-controlling Soviet Union after becoming a fugitive and he was considerably too young to actually get a PhD before being sent to the gulag. Heavy is still going to keep that PhD or at least, university studies in Russian literature in this story so please, don't look into detail on the timeline, because I'm already telling you it's not possible. To justify this incongruence, my obsessive perfectionist nerd part will be lying to itself saying that Heavy was sent to the gulag on 1951, instead on 1941. You can do the same if you wish.
In the last chapter, I said that I was taking a break to draw. Well. I added the drawing of a naked young Heavy being chased by an army of ga-ga-gas, aka, geese to the end of The Bonfire chapter.
Acknowledgments to my new beta-reader, nonFishEggs, for proofreading this chapter.
CHAPTER 10 - The visitors
Sniper hadn't expected the whole team to be interested in visiting him and even less to burst all together through the door like a herd of boisterous elephants with smiles and relieved expressions of various degrees and forms of awkwardness. The Australian told himself that he was too drained to read them accurately, that they must have been hiding anger and disappointment under those façades, but the truth was that they weren't.
That morning, each one of them had seen him in the awful condition Heavy had brought him in. It had reminded them that, despite coming back from the dead from Monday to Friday multiple times a day, they weren't the immortal gods they had started believing they were. Outside working hours, their lives were as ephemeral as anyone else and today, they had almost lost one of their own for real.
Perhaps, Sniper wasn't the most social member of their team. He almost didn't drop by the base or participate in any of their common activities but at the same time, that also meant they hadn't been able to develop any bitter memory or hold any grudge against him. In a sort of way, he was a stranger to them, a quiet neighbour. The team was obviously glad that he was alive but it was hard to know how to feel about the polite co-worker whose role on the team usually went unnoticed. 'Usually' being the keyword here.
For any other teammate, like for example Medic or Soldier, their contribution to the fight was quite visible. If the doctor was seen distributing heals or popping übers, it meant he was doing his job. If the crazy American was screaming around, blowing up enemies with his rocket-launcher and delivering shovel-based concussions; it meant that he was fulfilling his part. With Sniper, it had been incredibly more subtle.
Until now, the team hadn't really been able to appreciate how much the sharpshooter contributed to the match. However, that day, coming across with any of the BLUs had mysteriously become way more common. Enemies had stopped suddenly dropping dead just in the precise decisive instant that it was needed. The BLU Spy had been chaining backstabs one after the other without anyone noticing or being able to stop him and the other Sniper was almost better to leave unmentioned. He had been stealing advantageous nest positions, knowing that he didn't need to fear the deadly red dot anymore, and aligning one headshot after the other.
In summary, Sniper's relevance might have gone unnoticed before but hell, when he hadn't been there, his team had really noticed his absence. Concordantly to the Australian's supposition, the REDs had lost miserably that day and the match had finished the earliest ever, breaking records.
If Heavy had shared his suspicions regarding the long-term malfunctioning of the van's heating system, the team's attitude might have been different towards the ill man. Instead, the sensible Russian had decided to keep it to himself, avoiding throwing accusations he wasn't absolutely sure about. Besides, the Australian hadn't said anything to anyone about the initiator of the Sandwich War so he felt like it was his turn to reciprocate. In consequence, the rest of the men ended up believing that Sniper had been involved in an unfortunate accident where no one was to blame, except the unpredictable weather.
Wanting to express their convoluted feelings and newly discovered appreciation for their sharpshooter, the team agreed over dinner about going and saying some words afterwards. In principal, it sounded like a simple indefectible plan but neither of them took into account a crucial factor. How, as a proud manly mercenary, do you show your gratitude, concern and empathy to a teammate you hardly are acquaintance with who, in addition, is just recovering from a traumatic event?
Exactly.
It isn't possible.
It's a too emotionally complex situation for a bunch of deranged killers with a combined endless list of mental problems.
What it started like a round of 'Hey, how are you feeling?' turned into absolute chaos in less than three minutes.
The picture was the following.
Demo was sobbing on Sniper's lap, mumbling unintelligible words that resembled more Scottish than English, while he alternated some unpredictable cries of joy for his recovery with long swigs of his scrumpy. In return, Sniper was patting his shoulder in attempt to console him, very confused about the exact cause of his breakdown. Shouldn't it be him the one being offered kind words?
Heavy was restraining, as best as he could, Soldier and Scout from fighting each other with his bare fits and a spork, that for some reason, the young runner had found in one of the pockets of his uniform. The two loud Americans had previously initiated a spontaneous screaming contest with the goal of making their voices heard over everyone else and at realising the limit of the vocal cords, they had opted to silence their major competitor the only way they knew. Using violence. As a quick note, the shouting contest was still going on.
In the meanwhile, Engineer was futilely trying to calm them down, at the same time that he was throwing pleading faces of assistance to an immutable Spy and keeping an eye on Pyro, who was giving the impression of being very interested in testing the flammability of the plastic curtains around the bed.
Spy, who might have considered himself the only one in the room with a functional brain and some notion of self-preservation, had retired to the opposite corner of the lab the moment he had sensed the first signs of conflict. Resting against the wall, he had observed the situation quickly escalate with his trademark expression of 'I'm surrounded by idiots'. He had believed himself untouchable and out of danger just a second before bringing his lighter an inch from his unlit cigarette. The coo of one of Medic's doves had brought to his attention the real predicament he was in. At seeing him pull out the pack of cigarettes, the loyal birds had begun slowly perching up above him, ready to deploy their poop ammunition at the whim of their primitive wills. For more than forty seconds already, Spy had been currently frozen in that stalemate position, not daring to light his cigarette in fear of being rained over but too smug to put it back.
When Pyro managed to ignite the plastic curtains he had been playing with, Medic eventually realized the mad show of uncivilized animals that was taking place in his sacred lab and chased them out with a blood-stained bonesaw in hand. Until smelling the stench of toxic smoke, he had been mostly distracted by warming up Sniper's dinner on his lab microwave. Chemical mutagens and human safety be damned. Any other person would have reacted earlier to that cacophony of infernal yells but not the German. Subconsciously ignoring the shouts of his teammates had become second nature to him through so much practical experience.
While the men were kicked out of the infirmary by the morally debatable scientist and Heavy danced claque over the scorched curtain, Sniper compared this situation to the many occasions in the past that he had ended up on a hospital bed.
It had never been this eventful.
Except for his family, nobody else had ever come to visit him and there had been plenty of opportunities for it. An open head, three stitched eyebrows, two broken noses, two dislocated jaws, a bad caries, multiple beat-ups with several contusions, a broken arm, a broken leg, one sprawled wrist, three sprawled ankles, an ear infection, an appendicitis, seven venomous animal bites and the list could have been even longer if he hadn't learnt to patch up himself at an early age. By when he had legally become an adult, half of the staff from the rural hospital had known his full name by heart. Well... Honestly... That didn't have much merit. He guessed that a lanky feeble kid who apparently was immune to the Australium's effects wasn't that easy to forget.
In that last moment before quietness, Sniper wondered if it would have been of any comfort for that lonely boy to know that more than thirty years later, a band of insane killers would be the first people to care enough to pay him a visit.
With a shrug, he supposed that it was better late than never, better someone than no one.
While Sniper ate his warm dinner in peace, the team agreed upon an order of visitation through a moderately peaceful game of rock-paper-scissors. If the bites and insults weren't taken into consideration, of course. Most of them still didn't know exactly what they wanted to say, but Engineer had stubbornly refused to continue with his evening without having a proper conversation with his sick teammate and the rest of the members had felt in the obligation of doing the same.
With no proof of it but definitely through cheating, Spy had secured the first turn. He had entered the room with his usual demeanour of superiority, had sat down on the chair that had been provided next to Sniper's bed and, as if he was a privileged being above established rules, had turned off the timer Medic had set up to control the duration of the visits. Nor that the doctor really had any concerns about the impact such visits might have on his patient's mental well-being. He just didn't want people coming and going out of his lab for more than an hour. It annoyed him.
Despite the alarm being deactivated, Sniper had been keeping track of time. Three good minutes had passed already and the Frenchman had done nothing but idly play with one of his unlit cigarettes, switching it from finger to finger in a hypnotic rhythm. Not a single word had come out of him, only some casual glances every few seconds.
Sniper had a very strong suspicion of what the conceited rogue was waiting for and complying to his whim didn't thrill him in the slightest. Oh... How naïve he had been at believing, even if it had been just for a second, that the backstabber's interest in visiting was purely out of the goodness of his heart.
HA! With the Spook, it never was. He doubted the two-faced scoundrel actually had a heart.
Another tiresome minute went by with absolutely no change.
The Australian huffed a little disgruntled. If a duel of patience was what the croissant agent wanted, they could be here until the end of times. For fuck sake! His class name was 'Sniper', half of his job consisted on waiting and more waiting. He could do this all day and night.
The long hand of the clock spun another full circle.
Argh... The fancy pants wasn't going to leave any time soon, was he? Didn't the self-centred Frenchman realize that there were more teammates to deal with after him? This conflict didn't exclusively involve the two of them. At some point, the other men awaiting outside were going to get impatient and break in and Sniper was definitely not keen on getting caught in that situation again. If a fire had 'accidentally' started during a goodwill visit, one could only fathom what would happen if his insane team of fools and psychos had actual destructive intentions. It wasn't worth discovering it.
The more he delayed it, the worse. Better get through these visitations as fast as possible. Better make it quick and painless. Why had he agreed to this in the first place? Wasn't the first collective visit enough?
Sniper relinquished, giving the other man what he was craving for.
"Thank you."
Spy snorted and rolled his eyes.
"I saved your life from meeting a pathetic end, bushman. I believe you can afford a full sentence." He lifted his eyebrows expectantly.
Sniper stared at him grumpily, bit his tongue, swallowed twice, took a deep breath and twenty-three seconds later, he finally muttered between his teeth with an irritated glare.
"Thank you for saving my life, Spook."
The master of espionage nodded satisfied and placed the unlit cigarette between his lips.
"You are welcome." He accepted his words with an indifferent tone and stood up with his presumptuous mannerisms. He pulled aside the separating curtain and when it almost seemed like he was going to leave, he turned his head around, giving him a profile view of his masked face.
"Please, don't waste the last of your surviving neurons trying to find a deeper meaning to my actions. I'm paid to keep all of you morons alive."
Oh... It was indescribable what Sniper would have given in that moment to be armed with his kukri and far away from any witnesses. He clenched his fits, tightened his whole body and exhaled through his mouth, using that imaginary scene to sooth his murderous intents. He told himself that he was in all levels better than this backstabbing fraud. He was a real professional. Nothing like the shit of human being he had only two strides away.
Immediately after Spy stepped away from the bed, the blaring click of his lighter echoed against the infirmary's walls.
"Nicht in meinem Labor rauchen!" Medic shouted out in reaction from the other side of the lab.
"I was about to leave!" Spy yelled at him in a louder tone. As he walked towards the exit with an angered gait, he grumbled to himself in French. "Like you really care about hygiene with all those filthy flying rats you call pets."
He sonorously slammed the door of the infirmary on his way out, but not before a dove could poop on him.
A second later, the Frenchman stood petrified in the corridor, utterly horrified at the sudden warm muck he was feeling on the top of his head.
"Bordel de merde... Va te faire foutre, Medic!"
At hearing him curse, Sniper guffawed emphatically to make himself intentionally audible through the walls.
He didn't succeed.
The laughter of his teammates outside was more deafening.
The next visitors were Engineer and Pyro, which made Sniper feel quite relieved. First, because he considered that, as long as no potentially weaponizable device was in the vicinity, the soft-spoken Texan was one of the safest members of the team to hang out with. Second, because he didn't want to be alone with the abomination in an asbestos suit that they called Pyro and third, because two people in one go meant one less turn in total, less time dedicated to this unfamiliar formality.
From the ten minutes of allowed courtesy, the genius tinkerer spent three and a quarter explaining the excessively elaborated game theory he had used to predict his teammates on rock-paper-scissors and therefore, win the second visitation turn. One and a half apologizing for misusing three and a quarter minutes in that fascinating topic in his subjective opinion but, perhaps, not the most pertinent due to the time limitation. Two minutes and a half assuring Sniper that no, aside from parking his van inside the garage, no, he hadn't done anything to it, no, he hadn't converted it into a transformable submarine, no, he hadn't even taken a peek under the hood.
In result, expressing his empathy for the sharpshooter's medical condition was left only with one minute and three quarters. By the way Engineer phrased his words, Sniper could sense that the man was partially blaming himself for not clearing up the garage the same day he had been requested to and thus, preventing the incident before it could happen. That behaviour made the Australian suspect that the Texan was unaware that his camper had been malfunctioning for almost two weeks. Against some sour feeling he didn't want to give a name to, he opted to let that misconception prevail over confessing his stubborn carelessness. He told himself it was the smartest choice.
The last minute of the visit was awarded to Pyro. He, she, it or whatever alien creature that dwelled under that full rubber suit, employed his spotlight moment to fervently hug the Australian and mumble excitedly for his recovery. Not used to being in the firebug's presence, Sniper didn't catch a single word of his ramble but he nodded along as if he was perfectly understanding him. He felt so bloody awkward during the whole ordeal, but he endured under Engie's sympathetic gaze.
Just before the time could run out, Pyro remembered something he had almost forgotten.
With theatrical gestures, he hurried up to pull out a sheet of crumpled paper from one of his pockets and handed it to Sniper who accepted it hesitantly with a weak polite smile.
Fearing a disturbing death threat or something worse, the Australian looked down at his hands.
It was a harmless drawing.
More precisely, a childish-like drawing of the whole team standing in a full circle and giving an ovation to a pale Sniper-resembling figure in the middle. Despite, the simplicity of the style, each one of the mercenaries was easily recognizable thanks to their characteristic uniforms and stock weapons. In addition, the drawing had been coloured with several different brands of crayons, markers and pencil colours and there was even glitter spread over. It was a little heart-warming. Just a little.
"Thanks, Pyro." Sniper cracked a lopsided smile.
The firebug clapped his hands happily and replied something about the drawing that eluded the Australian's comprehension.
Two seconds later and totally out of the blue, Medic burst the curtain open, expertly stole the drawing with a pair of tweezers and slipped it inside a transparent envelop.
"No glitter in my lab!" He returned it to the hands of an astonished Sniper and walked away to continue with his experiments.
"Lad... I have bad news. I've been talkin' with Heavy while I waited ootside and I'm afraid... That you might be haunted. That snowstorm we had yesterday... It wasn't normal. I kenned that somethin' supernatural was goin' on and Heavy just confirmed my suspicions. Cailleach, the Queen of Winter might be afta ye, lad. The auld lassie goes by many names. Digdi, Biróg or how the fancy scribblers like ta call her now, Beira, but in the end, she's the same crabbit hag who enjoys tormentin' mortals. She and I, we share common history. I thought she'll be more grateful after I blew up partta the Loch Ness but if that lassie thought she could take one of my mates, she was dead wrong."
"Five minutes twenty-two seconds left... Why am I takin' the word of this drunk seriously? … Maybe 'cause Merasmus wasn't real until he was. Crikey... How many of the paranormal shit I have heard through my life is actually real? Are drop bears real? That'll explain a lot of things..."
"I might be a black Scottish cyclops *sob* but I'm the best demoman! Aye, the best! And no one, not even a Goddess, will touch my mates! So don't fret, boyo. I have ye covered. She ain't 'onna get ye again. Next time, we'll be the ones ta get her. Blow her inta little pieces! HA! Like I did with those bloody gnomes. In the meanwhile, focus on recoverin', lad. Ye looked peely-walley this mornin', peely-walley like a dead man. Sent us all in chitters, when we saw ye. We almost thought ye were a goner. I almost thought... *sob*" The Scottish covered his face and for a moment, it gave the impression that he was going to burst into tears.
"Four minutes fourty-five seconds... No, Demo, no... Don't start cryin' again, mate. I ain't-"
"But look at ye now, aye?!" The man suddenly regained a cheerful spirit and euphorically shook Sniper in some sort of half hug. The sharpshooter didn't know what induced him more nausea, the violent shaking or the strong stench of alcohol emanating from the uncomfortably close mouth of his teammate. "Ye're looki' bloody braw now! Bloody braw! Do ye ken what we should do ta celebrate? A toast, lad! Fer yer recovery and our future Goddess hunt together. Fer good luck!"
Still hugging him, Demoman lifted his fist and after a second of drunk stupor, he realized his dear bottle of scrumpy wasn't between his fingers as he had expected it to be. It took him a couple of blinks to remembered that Medic had made him leave it behind before stepping into the infirmary. The demolitions expert scanned his surroundings to make sure that the inconsistently strict doctor wasn't paying attention to them and with an impish chuckle, he pulled out a handful of scrumpy miniature bottles from the inside of his pants.
"The doc confiscated mae regular stock but I'm always prepared." He mischievously whispered and winked at him with his single eye. A continuation, the demolition expert sneakily handed him a mini-bottle and Sniper accepted it reluctantly, disgusted by the origins of its warmth.
Holding the little flasks with two fingers, they had the most ridiculous diminutive toast of their adult lives.
The clash of the glasses made an almost imperceptible cling sound.
"No drinking alcohol in my lab!" Medic suddenly irrupted into the secret celebration, making Demo throw his mini-bottles in surprise. During a frightful instant, the alcohol miniatures were suspended in the air. Immediately after, gravity claimed them down. With the coordination, reflexes and depth perception unbelievable for such a drunken one-eyed person, the Scottish managed to catch each one of them before they could touch the floor.
Laying on the ground in a position worthy of a contortionist, the man sighed in relief at his achievement. In contrast, the exasperated German glared at him debating the type of punishment he should inflict on him.
Sniper stared in awe at them, amazed at the scene he had just witnessed and glad that this visit was most certainly over.
"So Mike the Stapler, not ta be confused with Mike the Stabber, dat freakin' knucklehead almost killed one of my stupid brothers. *chew* Mike the Stabber, I mean, not the Stapler. The Stapler was a good pal, awesome friend of mine. We were best bros back in hell, aka school. *chew* We used to cut girl's ponytails when we got bored, so all the time, stick paper balls with shit and soap on the ceiling of the bathroom, throw stuff outta the windows. Ya know? *chew* Normal teenager stuff. *bloop*"
"Three minutes forty-seven seconds... Argh... His chewin' gum is drivin' me bloody insane. The curtain is shildin' us from Medic's view... Maybe I can... No, let it go... Inhale, exhale, inhale, Sniper... Only three minutes forty-three seconds to go. Resist... Three minutes forty-two seconds..."
"Anyway, so Mike the Stapler wanted ta stay at my place for the weekend and I was super-okay with it. Like 'Yeah, 'course, bro. It's gonna be the best weekend ever'. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. *chew* First, just after gettin' outta school, we had ta run away from Jonny the Fatass and his cronnies. *chew* I ain't a coward, man. Oh, hell yeah, no, nope. But I ain't gonna fight some dumbasses without my favorite bat. Not when they got knifes and I don't. *chew* So after runnin' our lungs out, we arrived home and guess what? *chew* The rats from the gas company had cut us da heatin' again! In December! Two freakin' weeks before Christmas! Can ya believe dat? *chew* What a bunch of assholes!*bloop*"
"Three minutes fifteen seconds... Ya can't blew a damn bubble gum while ya talk, kiddo! Ya've failed 28 times already! Bloody hell! Why am I countin' them? … Argh... Scout, just stop tryin' ... Not again! ... Stop!"
"Long short story or whatever it's called, we hadta sleep all together in da livin' room ta keep the heat. My seven brothers, my mum, Mike, me. Everyone. It was a freakin' cold weekend but we survived! *chew* So yeah, I know it sounds very gay, Sniper. *chew* Sleeping with your best pal sounds very gay but it ain't gay at all. Not a little gay. Nope, nope. *chew* It can't be gay 'cause I ain't gay and I slept with my best pal. Ya know I love ladies, right? A lady-killer machine, that's what I am. *chew* Have ya seen me with Miss Pauling? I'm awesome. Super-awesome. The best of the super-awesomes... *chew* So... *chew* Why was I tellin' ya this story?"
Scout finally ceased rambling and thanks to the sudden undivided availability of his complete buccal muscles and full lung capacity, he inadvertently blew a humongous bubble gum that could have honestly broken world records.
Unfortunately for him, it sonorously exploded a second later, miraculously not splashing around all its pink sticky substance.
At the speed of light, Medic teleported to Scout's side.
"No chewing gum in my lab!" He objected and proceeded to drag the kid out of the infirmary by the ear.
"Ay, ay! Oh, ouch, oh! *chew* Doc, stop! It hurts, man! *chew*" The runner protested, not having learnt his lesson.
"Do you know what I did in Poland when I was cold? I killed Nazis and if I still was cold afterwards, I killed more Nazis. There's no better way to warm up than killing Nazis, private. Oh... This bunch of weeping sissies we have for a team will tell you that a thick coat and a good fire is all you need but don't listen to them. They know nothing. Nothing! They don't know what real warriors need to flare up their bodies from the very inside of their ardent soul. The screams of terror and the spilled blood of your enemies are the only fuel you need! Attila the Hun said so!"
"Patience, patience, Sniper... That's what I'm good at. Patience... Seven minutes twenty-one seconds, seven minutes twenty seconds..."
"Next time you caught another 'hypotertamus', we'll get a plane and part in a mission to pierce our American fists through the stomachs of some Nazis. They think they can hide from me in the other side of the globe. But I know their whereabouts. I know about their secret den in... Oklahoma... I visit them every year for my birthday to remind them that they aren't welcome in this glorious country. I always bring with me my boots from the Second World War. Not to wear them, of course not. That would be a disgrace for such honourable relic. No, no. I bring them to force those scumbags to lick them clean when I'm done making them cry for their mummies."
"God... How much of this lunatic's monologue is really true? ... Better not to know ... Six minutes forty-eight seconds, six minutes forty-seven seconds..."
"For the real battle, I use my second pair of boots. A real soldier only needs two pairs of boots. One to kick asses and another to kick asses on special occasions and the second pair are the boots we are gifted with at birth. Exactly. Your bare feet, private. Mine are magnificently crafted through endless Nazi-killstreak experience. Let me show you. Words can't make justice to them. Combined with honey, they are the mighty secret weapon against all enemies of America."
"Six minutes twenty-nine seconds... Oh, please. No... No, no!" Sniper internally begged as he realized that Soldier was removing his boots for real.
"The faces of those-"
The delusional American was suddenly startled by Medic's interruption.
"No microbiological hazards in my lab!"
By this point, such irruptions had become way less unexpected for Sniper. A second after the sentence escaped the doctor's mouth, he became pensive.
"On second thoughts..." He said rubbing his chin. "I would love to take a sample of your feet microbiome, Soldier."
"These feet were given to me by my mother, God and America! If you want any piece of them, you'll have to saw them off of my steel-forged kickass ankles!"
"Oh, no problem at all! Let's get started." Medic snapped his glove on while his maniacal grin was reflected on the blade of his sharpened bonesaw.
Thank God, Heavy was the only one left!
This chapter has been divided in two because it became too long and I wanted to give relevance to what it's about to come in the next one. If you felt like the teammates' visits were a little rushed. Well... It's because they were. I realized that if I wanted to point out all the little details from my head it would have ended up writing a chapter for each character and this was only supposed to be for comical relief. Heavy and Sniper are the protagonists of this story but I don't want to neglect the other mercenaries. God... It's so hard to balance and I felt so lost writing Demo...
Any fragment said in another language that it's relevant or I really want you readers to know the meaning will be translated to English. Everything else in the 'original language' is just understandable by the context or the intention is to not be understood at all by English speakers. Kudos to my German friend for Medic's line and google for the French ones.
Spy like Sniper is going to emotionally evolved in this story. For now, you are going to see him being a prick with half of the team and behaving decently with Heavy and Engineer. I have always imagined that Spy and Medic wouldn't get along at all, their personalities are too clashing for me, so they are going to be arguing almost in every interaction. On top of that, Spy actually speaks German in this story but he refuses to talk it with Medic. Medic knows he knows German so despite never replying back, he just keeps talking to him in German to piss him off. The funniest thing is that I headcanon Medic knowing how to read French but not being able to understand it by ear or to speak it. The French, like the British, have been pioneers in science research, like the British too, they mostly published in their own language before the 20th century. I picture Medic learning how to read French to be able to access all those articles but never bothering or having the opportunity to actually learn the phoneme translation of the spoken language. French, opposite to English, has a moderately constant phoneme translation. That means that every letter is pronounced the same way regardless of the context. Not wanting to make that final step to master the language is what pisses Spy the most because it should be relatively easy. I can tell you. I'm learning my fourth language.
I'm going to use the masculine pronoun to refer to Pyro but the unknown gender of the character is going to be remarked many times in this story. I used to employ the pronoun 'they' in Brave New Update and it got me confused at some points, so I think I will just stick to 'he' this time.
Funny story about Demo's mini-bottles. Reality overcomes fiction. One of my friends from the geek club used to carry a canteen of whiskey on him and mini-bottles of different types of alcohol in his university bag.