TEAM FORTRESS 2 IS A VIDEO GAME BY VALVE
1966
Boston (Massachusetts, USA)
Fried chicken. That was all Jeremy was doing at that time of the night, in that street. Getting fried chicken for him and his Ma for dinner. He hadn't messed with anyone, flirted with no one's girlfriend or sister or even looked at someone the wrong way; for once, he was not looking for trouble. This time, trouble looked for him.
He barely had the time to see in a glance who was sat at the driver's seat. He saw a man of color, or that was what he thought, because the lampposts of that streets did not offer much light. Crips? Black Panthers? He had had experiences with so many gangs...Not that it mattered who it was. What really mattered at that moment was that the guy in the Ford car, not switching the headlights, stepped on the gas pedal as soon as he saw Jeremy crossing the pedestrian crossing, and the boy had to drop the plastic bag with the chicken and run. Run as fast as he could. Because that individual, whoever he was, whatever gang he belonged to or whoever he worked for, was determined to leave him flat on the pavement.
But Jeremy wouldn't make things so easy to him. First he would have to catch him. He considered he had lots of qualities, but the one he was most proud of was his legs. They were fast, muscled due to be used to running to the limit of their capacity since he was small, to running to stay away from trouble—get in trouble, sometimes. At that moment, they were all he had to keep himself alive. But not even his prodigious legs could be a match for a car driven by a furious guy who had gotten out of his house that night of September with the sole purpose of killing him.
The distance between them was shorter and shorter any second. The driver did not hesitate to invade the sidewalk and bump into other cars in the way to get him.
It was then when salvation came in the most unexpected way. A car was driving so close to Jeremy he could have sat on its roof with a hop. He tried to stay away from it, thinking it was his chaser's partner. Suddenly, the rear door opened, a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. The car took a violent turn which sent Jeremy against the opposite door.
"Jeremy Morton?"
He couldn't reply immediately because he was out of breath, and looking through the window to check if that guy was still chasing him. It seemed the car had managed to fool the Ford, and entered the freeway. But he didn't think he was safe. He was sure these were some other guys he had bothered in the past who came to make him pay, and now would shoot at him in the back of the head and leave his corpse somewhere, where they would find him months later, rotten, if they ever did.
But soon his defensive mutism vanished, when he turned his eyes to his savior or executor. A petite girl with glasses, around his age or even younger, of dark hair and purple dress.
"You are Jeremy Morton, aren't you?" She repeated her question.
"What if I tell you I'm not?" Jeremy asked.
"Then I'll drop you right here and let that other car tear you to pieces."
"And if I tell you I am?"
"If you are, Mann Co.'s got an offer for you that might save you lots of trouble."
Mojave Desert (California, USA)
"And while that son of a bitch strangled poor Johnny, me and Barney grabbed an antler each—'cause that reindeer was not using them, you know—, pounced on that Nazi scum and stabbed him in the eyes. Ah, you should have been there to see how he screamed, the big sissy!"
There were four men around the campfire, where a coyote was roasting. Four burly men, dressed in military attire. Hard as stone. Tougher than life.
Actually, only one of them was of flesh—the others were cardboard.
The real man grabbed the coyote and gave it a bite. Hot, but still a bit raw. He left it cooking for a little more and continued to speak to his imaginary friends.
"Those are such big boys when it comes to murdering women and children, but when a real man faces them, they crap their pants. It was great, turning them into critter meal, and letting them know who is the boss." There was a small pause, in which he grabbed the beer can he had at his feet, drank the little content left and tossed it to one side. "There are still a lot of them left...Cowards who left the sinking ship like rats and found a hole to find in in South America...We will find them, boys, and leave the mark of our boots in their faces. How glorious it-!"
Jane hushed suddenly, turning his head. He placed a finger on his lips, demanding his cardboard partners to keep quiet, as he stood up from the ground and reached for the shotgun he had near him. He took a couple of steps, then roared with the voice of a thunder: "STAY RIGHT THERE WHERE YOU ARE!"
"Wait! I come in peace!" Someone said.
Normally Jane wouldn't have trusted these words. After all, graveyards were filled with naive folks who had put their guns down at pretty words like those and it was the last thing they ever did. There were snakes everywhere. Nazis, Japs, communists, Arabs, Eskimos...One never knew.
The one who had pronounced these words was a young lady. How old she was? Definitely not an adult yet. That would have made any man let their guard down, but not Jane. Jane was not the kind of man who was convinced by a pretty face or youth. There were spies and soldiers in all shapes.
"I come in peace." The lady insisted, her arms up.
"The desert is very big. Were you looking for me? Have you been following me? Answer!" Jane replied.
"Well, yes. You are the man everyone knows as Jane Doe, aren't you?"
"You'd better have a good reason to know my name."
"I do. I come in the name of Mann Co. They have heard about you, and think you are the man they are looking for."
Jane had no idea of what Mann Co. was. He had never heard about it before. But he was interested enough to put his gun down and listen to whatever this girl had to say.
Tijuana (Mexico)
"¿Adónde ha ido?"
"¡No debió ir muy lejos, búsquenla!"
They were near, too near. But she was careful not to betray herself, even if that meant holding her breath and getting herself in the narrowest, most disgusting spaces.
Still, even though she could repress a giggle, she couldn't resist drawing a naughty smile.
There were so many men looking for her, carrying weapons, on patrol cars. Her face was in posters all around the city, the news broadcast that night warned the population about her.
«This dangerous pyromaniac has broken out of a mental asylum. If you have seen this woman, call the police and stay at home. Don't leave the house under any circumstance: she is extremely dangerous.»
This was the day for those who had claimed there were certain criminals who couldn't be contained in a cell. There you go, that was why dogs were put down when they bit people. Some humans were like that. If they hadn't lost time trying to reform this...monster, none of this would have happened. The day she ripped out the tongue of her doctor, they should have made an exception concerning death penalty and sent her to Hell, where she belonged. There was no cure possible for mad people like her. In fact, they should have let the crowd take care of her, after she killed that family, burning their house down. She was not known as the Diabla for nothing.
But for her, it was not a matter of life or death.
She was just playing hide and seek.
That was why, when a hand was placed on her shoulder, all she did was smirk.
"Do you speak English?" A young lady asked her.
The memory of this individual was not the best, but for some time she had lived glued to the United States and it had been someone's ambition and hopes that she learned the language of the gringos, even though she didn't remember it.
"You caught me! Your turn." She giggled.
The polite smile on the girl's face disappeared, seeing that madwoman advance towards her, claws ready to grab her, sink those nails on her skin, tear it...
"Wait! Wait! I have a better game in mind!"
The woman stopped and cocked her head like a curious child. It was then when the one with the glasses noted that she had blood on her cheek.
Ullapool (Highlands, Scotland)
His mother thought if he had time for a drink, he had time for another job, but if a man couldn't spend a nice time at the bar after a day's work, what did he work for?
This was Tavish's favorite pub: dark, full of rough men who started punching each other over nothing, with disgusting snacks and not very clean mugs. The beer was good, and the music was great. He could watch the drunks fighting each other as he got drunk himself. That night, the reason for the fight was Oscar Wilde. Oscar Wilde! These were men of culture, who read and all, but still loved to drink like the lowest peasant.
"Hey."
Tavish was getting a little tipsy, that was why the bartender calling him made him bounce a little on his seat.
"That lassie over there asked me to give you this."
Lassie? He was seeing no lass where the man was pointing at. Oh, yes, there, behind the guy with broad shoulders. She was so small she almost passed unnoticed among all those big men. Not bad, Tavish thought. How old was she? Well, with a bit of luck, she would be an adult.
Thinking that he had gotten a conquest, Tavish read the card the bartender had handed him. Or at least he tried. The words were dancing before his eye. He had to narrow it and fight to make some sense out of that combination of symbols on the paper.
«MANN CO. — We sell products and get in fights. — A division of TF Industries»
When Tavish rose his head, he found that the girl had approached and was already just a palm away from him.
"Hello. My name is Pauling. I heard you were looking for a job."
"Aye?" Tavish cautiously muttered.
"I got a job for you." The girl said.
It was a conquest after all, wasn't it?
Chicago (Illinois, USA)
All men around screamed like a bunch of animals, increasing Mikhail's own primal instinct of destroying the boxer in front of him. It was that or letting him destroy him, and the choice was clear. There was too much money at stake. The other man was João Silva, a man raised in the favelas of Rio, as savage and ruthless as life demanded the sakes of him to be. He was throwing every demolishing punch on him, every nasty little trick. He was hungry, both metaphorically and literally. That way, he had climbed to the top of this sport, made himself a name.
But Mikhail was also famous in those sordid circles for a good reason.
His torso was like a wall of bricks. Silva's punches hurt a little bit but he didn't move an inch. His fists were bigger than his face, and some adversaries, he had understood, described his blows like being hit by a train. Silva wouldn't need anybody to describe it to him: Mikhail saw his chance and unleashed punch after punch on his naked, sweaty torso and face. Blood stained his gloves, a tooth flew at his feet. People around yelled even louder.
It was time to finish this. One more blow and Silva felt flat on the floor. All the men in the room got up to cheer loudly.
"And the winner is One-Man Army!" The referee declared, rising Mikhail's massive arm with difficulty.
Silva's manager was reprimanding him for making him lose money, but Silva didn't seem to listen—he didn't seem conscious at all.
"You were magnificent, really good, boy!" Mikhail's, who was always wearing a green tracksuit and smoked a cigar, said to him.
"The money." Was all Mikhail said, extending his hand.
"Of course, of course. Now go to bed and put some ice in those knuckles. I got plans for you next week." The other said, handing him a wad of bills.
Mikhail counted them before changing his clothes. Two hundred dollars. He only kept ten to eat those days. The rest went on an envelope. He counted it once again and found he had already joined a good sum.
After taking care of the money, it was time to change his clothes. He was all sweaty and a bit smelly. He froze when he heard the sound of shoes approaching.
"I can see now why they call you One-Man Army..."
It was a young girl, with glasses and a purple dress. Mikhail barely looked at her. Sometimes all those men brought their girlfriends, daughters and prostitutes to the fights and some thought it would be fun or romantic to have an affair with the rough boxers. He was not interested in that kind of things. He had no time for love or sex.
"...What if I told you there is a way to make real money?"
Those were not the words he expected from a girl like that. Mikhail's cold eyes turned to her. Now she had his full attention.
Bee Cave (Texas, USA)
Sun was rising. It was such a beautiful sight that Dell walked out of his house to drink his coffee at the porch, watching it.
What a pretty morning. Damn, this seemed like the intro of a Disney movie: birds chirped, the breeze was just delightful, the pastures were under an orange light...It was almost tempting to grab the camera and take a picture; the ranch looked really lovely. Like a postcard.
A van stopped right in front of his house and the mailman got out.
"Morning, Dell!"
"Hello, Rick! How's it goin'?"
"Eh. My mother-in-law's staying with us. Daisy says she broke her hip and needs to be with someone, but I got the feeling she was just bored and wanted to bother us." The man, since he knew he had permission, opened the gate and handed Dell's mail personally to him. "There you go."
"Heh, that's too bad. Thank you, Rick. Want a coffee?"
"No, thanks. I still got all the route ahead. Maybe another day."
"Well, okay, have a good day."
"You too!" The mailman said before leaving.
Dell leaned on the facade to see what he got that morning. Bills. Bills. A letter from a distant relative—surely asking for money, because that was the only reason why he heard from his family. Publicity. The science magazine he was subscribed to.
He almost didn't see the last envelope under it. When he did, when he saw who the sender was, his smile faded slowly.
Mann Co.
He got inside, left the coffee mug and the mail on the nearest surface he found and opened the letter to read.
«Mr. Conagher, we are sure you remember us. Your father and grandfather worked for us. We've got a request for you...»
Dell rubbed his chin and his eyes turned to the window. The morning was still so beautiful...It almost seemed insulting, now.
New York (New York, USA)
The man let out a scream that made Josef's ears ring.
"Oh, come on, are you a man or a baby?" Josef said. "If you can't help but screaming, at least use this; you're making me deaf." And shoved a stick into his mouth.
His tongs mercilessly sank into the wound one more time, making the man yell again. This time, fortunately, it was muffled.
"Der Mond ist aufgegangen / Die gold'nen Sternlein prangen..." Josef hummed as his hands were getting stained with blood, lots of blood. The little shit was resisting, but he thought he had finally managed to grab it. There it was! With a clinc, Josef dropped the bullet on the metal tray.
A white dove gazed at the bloody piece with much curiosity. It approached its beak to inspect it.
"Archimedes! No! Don't you eat that! It won't do you good!" Josef reprimanded it. He then turned to his patient. "There you go. Bullet's out. Now I'm going to sew you and we will act like this never happened."
With thread and needle, he started working to close the wound, still humming that song, not minding the patient's grunts and whines.
"There you go! You look perfect, my good man! Just a little piece of advice: next time you try to rob a bank, try to dodge the bullets! Or at least wear a vest. Hehe. Now, the fee..."
The man handed him the money and walked out of the appartment. Another satisfied customer!
"Next!" Josef called to the other people waiting outside. More people who had done something bad or embarrassing, or didn't have the money to see a 'decent' doctor and had to recur to the one who wouldn't tell a soul about their 'tiny little accident'.
A young lady walked in. "Good night, doctor."
Josef studied her. Sixteen? Most probably. The small, thin type. She had pretty hips, though. He got young ladies like this so often he could guess what she was there for.
"Good night, my lady." Josef rubbed his hands. "What is it gonna be? An abortion? You want a bigger bosom? Did a man treat you badly? I can change the placement of his..."
"No, none of that." The girl replied quickly, as if she feared he was going to get his hands on her to do what he wanted. "I have heard you are very good at what you do. And that you are...creative."
"The best doctors innovate." Josef shrugged.
"Well, what if I told you there is someone willing to fund your investigations? For a price, of course."
Josef rose his eyebrow. Archimedes perched on his shoulder, like he was interested in this conversation.
"...I'm listening." Josef muttered, his lips curving.
Paris (France)
"I did my part. I just expect to be paid."
Lawrence turned around to make sure there was no one waiting to use the telephone booth. People could get rather impatient, hitting the glass, demanding folks to hurry up and finish; could listen to a conversation which was none of their business and he didn't want that. It was not only his natural retiring character, but just that—no one wanted to end up hanged for murder.
"You were paid." The man on the other side of the line was Albert Tacey, a very successful English businessman. But Tacey didn't have enough Rolls Royce apparently, and was looking forward a big deal with an Indian tycoon. There was only one thing between him and the contract: a rival, another big fish called Gerard Rosebud. And Tacey was willing to pay a good sum in order to get Rosebud out of the way.
"The deal was 50% in advance, the other half when the job was done. Rosebud's got a pretty hole in his skull. I sent you the daily newspaper and you must have seen it on the television. Now I'm only asking you for what is mine." Lawrence said.
"Be thankful that I'm not calling the Interpol on you! Never call me again, you hear me?"
Lawrence saw he had to recur to harder measures. He placed his hand on his pocket and took out a photography, as well as a cigarette, which he lit with one hand.
"Your daughters Mary and Ginny are so pretty...And smart too, right? Or did they get to Harvard thanks to Daddy's money?"
Silence from Tracey.
"They are really pretty..." Lawrence remarked, caressing with his thumb the picture of the blonde twins.
"You son of a...You bastard...You..." Tracey's voice trembled.
"Are you going to pay me, Tracey? Or do I have to pay the twins a little visit?"
"If you touch them I swear I'll..."
"What are you going to do?"
Tracey said something about what he would do if he saw him again, but Lawrence didn't hear any of it, because he hanged up after having heard the essential: he was going to be paid.
Of course, he was not going to actually do what he implied. His parents didn't raise him to be a pig to women. It was just a resource he had for that kind of clients who didn't want to pay for his services. He rarely had to actually pay a visit to the children, and when he did, he made sure it was just a fright, a fine scratch at most. He put the phone back to its place and turned around to leave.
It was then when he saw a petite girl with glasses waiting outside. He was going to leave when she blocked the way.
"Lawrence Mundy?"
There was no reason for that girl to know his name. He started making up a plan to get rid of her. Big cities, after all, were not safe for girls like those...A robbery...He would take her wallet and...
"I come in the name of Mann Co. We could use your services."
But that changed things...
Budapest (Hungary)
The girl looked at the building, then at the paper, then back at the building. This was said to be the address, but this was not an hotel. Like, it probably was once, but now it was an abandoned mess, with cracks everywhere, paintings on the walls, and a lot of garbage around. She got in and walked around, just in case, but aside from the remains of some homeless, drug addict camp, she found no signs of life. Perhaps the information was wrong?
Frowning, she got back into her car and looked for her phone, to make sure no one had done their job incorrectly.
It was then when she felt something metallic, cold, press against her neck.
"You have been asking too many questions."
She glanced at the rear view mirror, to find that there was someone sitting on the seat behind her, a man with his face covered by a mask.
"I have been looking for..."
"Ssht" He silenced her in a way that she found almost insulting, like she was some kind of dog or something. "Now it is me who is going to inquire here." The man gracefully moved to the copilot's seat and from there he gazed at her and kept threatening her with his revolver. "I know you have been looking for me."
He paused to light a cigarette, not taking his eyes off her, in a way that made her think he smoked an awful lot, so much it was a natural gesture for him. He expelled the smoke right in her face.
"You work from Mann Co. Your name is Flora Pauling. That company who acts like they make hats but actually designs and sells weapons of all kinds. Your boss, Mr. Hale, has already erased the competition with his own hands, so you don't want me to spy on them. Maybe interfere with the government of the United States so their situation is overlooked by the authorities? No...You already solved that problem...You've got enough money to buy the President and the whole Congress..." The man took a long, pensive drag. "Trying weapons, maybe?"
"Uhm, if I may..." The girl started to say.
"Did I give you permission to talk?"
"No, but I'm going to anyway." If that man killed her, someone would find him and end him. Pauling tried not to look at the gun. "About your guess, yes and no. Mann Co. is willing to provide you the most advanced gadgets you will ever find."
"In exchange of my services, of course."
"Yes. We have heard you are the best at hiding and spying. I am not even sure if the name I got is the real one."
"Probably not. I've got one hundred twenty one fake identities."
"You are known in Eastern Europe as the Shadow Man."
"Correct."
"Apart from the gadgets, we can offer you money. Tons of money."
"And what do you want me to do?"
"Steal. Spy. And kill the people we tell you to."
This man's eyes were like daggers, piercing her skin and examining her guts. She had trouble reading his expression with that thing covering his head.
"Hm." Was all he said. It seemed she had managed to save her skin and interest him—but he didn't move the tip of the revolver away from her neck yet.