A of N wait no N of A: So, this was supposed to be just ONE story. But then I realized that I had marked it as incomplete. So I decided to make this a full Meet the Team of weirdness while self-deprecating in a vaguely irritating manner. So if you're reading this, yaaay? Peering into my abyss of a mind is honestly not at all interesting, I find.

I will now state that I make no pretense to be able to write good fan fiction (what is that even). I cannot do crack or trollfics properly. I am incapable of fluff. I don't know what I do. In all seriousness, thank you, readers, for not coming to my house and burning me at the stake.

(The following text was taken from the Scots Wikipedia article on Scots.)

"Scots (or "Lallans", a poetic spellins for lawlands) is ae Wast Germanic leid thit's spaken en the Lawlands an Northren Isles oScotland an en the stewartrie o Ulster en Ireland (whaur it's kent as "Ulster-Scots", "Scotch", or "Ullans"). En maist airts, it's spaken anent the Scots Gaelic an Inglis leids. Anglian spikkers wer weil staiblisht in sooth-eist Scotland bi the 7t yeirhunder."

(Okay I can't do this.)

(Besides, Demo is from the Highlands. There, they would be far more likely to speak Scottish Gaelic.)

Demoman's Demolition

It was early morning, or late afternoon. There was a lull in the battle, and all was calm. Or was it?

Demoman was drunk anyway. He made it a point to never go to battle sober. He lobbed a couple of grenades at no one in particular, and yawned. Distant screams. He smiled.

He was getting ready to crack open another bottle of scrumpy, when a paper airplane - its looping, lazy spirals bringing it closer and closer to the earth - hit him in the eyepatch.

Stupid lack of depth perception.

He opened the plane. On it, a mess of words swam before his eyes. "You are reading this right now. 'S i cànan dùthchasach na h-Alba a th' anns a' Ghàidhlig. 'S i ball den teaghlach de chànanan Ceilteach dhen mheurGhoidhealach a tha anns a' Ghàidhlig. Tha Goidhealach a' gabhail a-steach na cànanan Gàidhealach gu lèir; Gàidhlig na h-Alba, Gàidhlig na h-Èireann, agus Gàidhlig Mhanainn agus gu dearbh chan eil anns an fhacal "Goidhealach" ach seann fhacal a tha a' ciallachadh "Gàidhealach".

Demo frowned. Was someone attempting to make a mockery of his Scottish ancestry? Should he be offended? Should whoever did this be ashamed of themselves? Why was an extended paragraph in Scottish Gaelic about Scottish Gaelic on a paper airplane being thrown at him? Why did it say "You are reading this right now?"

As his scrumpy-soaked brain tried to wrap itself around the self-referential nature of the note, succumbing to endless regressive ruminations about reality, and casting doubt upon his own understanding of life itself, the BLU team's Pyro walked past him, into the base, and took the intelligence.

That was when he realized that his scrumpy had been drugged.

Soldier stood frowning at the incoherently babbling lump on the ground.

"What's goin' on, Solly?" asked Engineer.

"It's trying to communicate with me. I can't understand it. Not enough freedom in its voice."

"Damn it, Solly, that's Demoman!" Engineer stepped closer, about to help the Scotsman up, but paused. "Do you hear that?" It was the sound of much riotous laughter and celebration and underhanded schemes, which would have been a beautiful sound if it weren't coming from the other team.

"THE ENEMY HAS TAKEN THE INTELLIGENCE!"

"Aw, hell…"

"YOU FAIL, LOSERS, AND YOUR PARENTS NEVER LOVED YOU!"

"Shut UP, BLU Soldier!"

They looked back to their base, which was on flames. "Already?!"

"Well, all that alcohol and volatile substances that Demoman hoards -"

"I get it!"

Demoman awoke, and his brain was doing a very good impression of being attacked by a headless horseless horseman who tried and failed to take his actual head. He almost wished that the hypothetical headless horseless horseman had succeeded, because as far as he knew, the reticular formation of the brain was necessary for wakeful alertness, and headlessness would probably mean its removal. He paused, remarking blearily that this was the most reflective hangover he had ever had. By some miracle, he managed to reevolve into an upright-walking member of the hominid superfamily, and stumbled his way back to the base.

The wrong base, actually. Twice. Two respawns later, he turned around and headed for the building coloured red instead of blue, which was surprisingly more effective than picking directions at random.

When he arrived at the base, he found an intervention waiting for him.

"Aw, bloody hell!" he griped. Why was everything piling up on this one day? It was almost as if it were all contrived by some unseen force.

"Demoman," began Engineer. "You're a grown man, and you can make your own choices. We're just becoming concer-"

"YOUR RUM-SODDEN ASS IS LOSING US MATCHES!" interrupted Soldier.

"It's scrumpy," corrected Demoman.

"Whatever. The point is, we are going to show you a very nice interactive video about the dangers of alcohol," Medic chimed in. "Maybe it'll help you with your reward deficiency syndrome, probably stemming from your traumatic backst- childhood."

"Aw, bloody-" Demoman muttered. "Wait! What did those BLUs put in me scrumpy?"

"Actually, it was just more scrumpy," Engineer explained. "Just a different brand than you're used to."

"I knew I tasted inferiority in that scrumpy!"

"Can we just roll the clip?" whined Scout. Nobody really wanted him there, but there was really no getting rid of him once he got it into his mind that he was invited to a party involving alcohol, even if it was an intervention party that was anti-alcohol.

The projector projected the film leader - which, since it was put together by Soldier, skipped the number 6 and bizarrely featured a picture of Sun Tzu in a grass skirt.

Chemistry lessons: Alcohol

"Alcohols" are characterized by the presence of an -OH, or hydroxide, ion; this is called a "hydroxyl functional group".

They are extremely noxious toxins, as the normal liver function of detoxification involves oxidizing the alcohol compound which leads to the formation of formaldehyde, and then formic acid.

Formic acid, also known as methanoic acid-

"Can ye get on with it?"

Shut up, Demoman, we're here to inform you of the evils of alcohol and deconstruct the stereotype of the hard-drinking Scotsman!

"I am a hard-drinking Scotsman by choice, ya wingnut!"

That's what we're trying to fix!

"Well, can ye get on with it?! Who cares about kiddie pool organic chemistry – like, functional groups? Are you kiddin' me? Who doesn't know about that?"

Shut up!

"Oh, look at me, able to differentiate between carboxylic acids and alcohols! I am such a special, smart wee bairn of a chemist!"

SHUT UP

"You know, you could focus on the specific health effects and the consequences of alcoholism on others," offered Engineer helpfully.

Medic stroked his chin. "I do have many cirrhosis-scarred livers on display."

WOULD YOU ALL BE QUIET?!

The entire room went quiet.

Alright, I'll give you the MADD special! Geez! If touching testimonials of actual victims that suffer from this very real issue doesn't get to you, nothing will! ALCOHOL MAKES YOU BLIND AND SLOWLY KILLS YOU

ITS SWEET TEMPTATION IN A BOTTLE, BUT ITS SLOW POISON PROVIDES NOTHING BUT PAIN IN THE END

IT DRAINS YOUR WILL TO RESIST IT EVEN AS IT SYSTEMATICALLY DESTROYS EVERY PART OF YOUR LIFE WORTH LIVING

GO AHEAD

KEEP DRINKING

SEE IF I CARE

"…See?" Demoman said. He shifted in his seat. "That's…better."

"It relies too much on shock value, and the prose is a bit purple," mused Engineer. "They should try delivering on some of those testimonials."

YOU ARE ALL SOCIOPATHS. I'M LEAVING.

"hUdrrr!" exclaimed the Pyro, waving enthusiastically.

"Well, I'm off," Demoman announced in the awkward, tension-ridden room. He got up, stumbling into the door a few times before heading to his store of scrumpy.

"Should we tell him Pyro burned his entire stash?"

"Let him find out for himself, Sniper."

From the distance, they heard a long, bloodcurdling scream.

The following week, Demoman went completely alcohol-free while he waited for his new secret shipments of scrumpy that he was nearly certain had already been sabotaged. For the first few days, his system rebelled and kept him in a state of affected inebriation in a desperate attempt to recreate its natural state, but he soon was able to separate his hallucinations of his heart and liver from actual organs flying around his head during battles. After the "adjustment period" (or, as Medic called it, "breaking in of the horse"), he found himself thrust into a state of unparalleled clarity of thought and consciousness. Never had it been that things were properly focused in his vision, never had it been so evident that doing complex mathematics requires the prefrontal cortex, never had the chemical equations for producing trinitrotoluene assembled themselves and balanced so perfectly in his mind.

He was absolutely miserable.

Half-heartedly launching stickybombs at a random moving target that he could precisely aim at but missed on purpose, he sat in the shade of the respawn building and bemoaned his fate as a teetotaler. He briefly considered trying to find some sort of substitute. Hell, he'd even find Miller's Light appealing at this point.

Meanwhile, everyone else was being killed.

"How is it that we're doing worse than before?" screamed Scout before being blown into a thousand gibs. Archimedes flew past and settled on Medic's shoulder.

"I don't know about this, Medic," muttered Engineer. "Do you really think giving him more alcohol is necessary?"

"Cold turkey doesn't work, you know," the Medic admonished, stroking Archimedes' head while feeding him birdseed.

"I know, but what you're proposing is to keep reinforcing his habit!"

"It turns out that respawning negates most types of damage incurred in the period leading up to the death, including toxigenic necrosis, major trauma, and -"

"You know I have no idea what you're talking about. Stop messing with me."

The Medic cleared his throat. "Vell, it means if we give him alcoholic beverages in reasonable amounts on a schedule, we are within ethical bounds. I don't vant him drinking any more than you do, he's very sloppy, but this is the best way to maintain our team's performance." He smiled at the small dove in his palm. "Isn't that right, Archimedes?"

"You're seeking validation from a columbid and not the opinion of a man who currently holds eleven Doctors of Philosophy in various fields of hard science?"

"Yes," retorted the Medic. "He isn't as much of a downer as you are. My solution is perfect!"

"Well, there are many factors to this problem, and I think it's premature to assume that one's first idea is the be-all end-all so early in the development phase-"

"Well, actually, I think that your problem's resolved itself," the Spy observed drily, materializing behind them like the spook he was.

"Spy! Where did you come from? I thought you were lying low until it was your turn to be featured!"

"I came from France. ("Oh really?" muttered the Medic.) Look over at the BLU Demoman." The BLU in question was standing on the control point, holding a half-drained bottle of scrumpy and singing loudly. The BLU Soldier was yelling at him to GET HIS ASS DOWN FROM THERE and HELP HIS TEAM. The RED Pyro obliged, airblasting the BLU Demoman into the path of one of the Engineer's Level 3 Sentries.

The Engineer gasped in realization.

"They cancel each other out…"

"Also, no one wants to be like that."

Demoman chose that time to jog over, his eye wide. "Do I really act like - that?"

"No…"

"Yes."

"Okay, yes."

Recoiling in horror, Demoman ran off, screaming "I'm never touchin' another drop of scrumpy!"

The Medic frowned, disappointed. "That was a deus ex machina."

"No," stated Spy, smoking a cigarette cynically. "That's only if it works. Just drip-feed him alcohol and wean him off it like you planned. He won't last a day in self-enforced sobriety."

And he didn't.

~ZE END~

I'm not going to stop with the tildes.